


Hermione Granger and the Perfectly Reasonable Explanation

by Robin_Drew



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-23
Updated: 2017-07-24
Packaged: 2018-07-22 13:51:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 117,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7441657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Robin_Drew/pseuds/Robin_Drew
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In 1991, a child came to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry with obvious gifts, but which few suspected would change the world... Oh, and Harry Potter enrolled that year as well.</p>
<p>*** A few tweaks to canon, plus extrapolating Hermione's apparent intelligence realistically. I expect events to diverge fairly quickly. ;) ***<br/>WIP: Currently updating every couple of weeks, but no guarantees.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Yes, yes, *obviously* I didn't invent these characters, yadda yadda.

Prologue

_October 31, 1981_

The view out the window was dark. The new moon had come a few days before, and only a sliver of white showed in the sky. There were no electric lights to be seen either - the window looked out onto a small rear yard, sheltered from streetlights and traffic by enclosing buildings and fences.

But the small room inside was warmly lit by a fire, and a pair of side-table lamps on either side of the sofa. One lamp illuminated the pages of the spy novel being read by a young brown-haired man in corduroy slacks and a beige sweater-vest. The other shone upon the non-fiction book - 'The Mismeasure of Man', as it happened - being read by a young brunette woman in a thick beige cardigan, her legs obscured by an afghan. The firelight itself danced merrily on the pages of a thinner book, pressed open on the floor by the stubby fingers of a two-year-old girl in a white nightgown. The flickers of orange and yellow made the illustrations of rabbits in waistcoats seem almost as if they might come to life at any moment, but the girl paid them little heed, her eyes instead lingering over the crisp black letters.

Though she knew the words by heart long since - she'd read the book more than once, after all - the girl often returned to it for pleasure. It had been the first book she'd read, a few months ago, and re-reading it reminded her of that first amazing thrill when she'd realized that these marks on paper - not pictures, mind you, just black marks they called 'letters' - could somehow turn into _words in her head_. It _was_ rather magical, when you thought about it.

The girl was not in costume, and no children came to the door, for the American tradition of trick-or-treating had not yet made its way across the Atlantic, and the family was not one for fancy-dress parties. Not that the girl was much given to fancy in general - her imagination was thus far firmly focused upon deciding which book she would next ask her mother to fetch down from the high shelves. Nor would children calling upon this home on later Hallowe'ens leave with much satisfaction - the man and the woman were both dentists.

At around the same time, quite some distance West, something horrible was happening (and also, if one was of a sufficiently pragmatic bent to consider it so, something miraculous). None of the residents of the house were aware of it, or even of the context in which the event was taking place. Nor would they ever have even learned of it, but for one simple fact; a few years hence, a certain quill would write the name Hermione Jean Granger - and beside it her birth date - in a certain book, in a certain room, in a certain tower, in a certain castle, the very existence of any of which both she and her parents would have been equally unlikely to suspect at all.

But then, look closely enough at anything important and you're _bound_ to find a book in there somewhere, aren't you?


	2. Statistical Sampling

Hermione Granger was not like other girls her age. That much could be clearly illustrated - and had been - via simple bell curve charts based on surveys she'd given to her classmates. She'd asked how many books they'd read in the past year, how many books on average they read per week, and so on. In every relevant category, the dot that represented Hermione was sitting by itself off on the right side of the paper (except the chart showing school absences, where she was on the left, instead).

It was just as clearly (if more symbolically) illustrated in noting how few other girls had _administered surveys_ , and that no one else at all had calculated the standard deviations. But that was something Hermione had learned early on.

At first, whenever she had a question, the path to answering it was simple - ask an adult, or find the right book. But she'd eventually discovered that there were some questions that weren't answered in books. Usually, because the question wasn't important enough that anyone else had asked it, or it was very _specific_. So she stepped back to the problem of question-answering in general, and there were a great many books about _that_. They were so interesting, in fact, that she couldn't remember what question she'd wanted to answer in the first place when she'd come up for air a week or so later.

But now she had some tools for figuring such things out, even if other people seemed to use them even _less_ than they used books. Of course, these tools had their own difficulties at times. Take statistical sampling, for example. You needed a large enough pool of examples before you could be at all confident about any patterns you thought you saw. That began to become troublesome when Hermione's classmates started answering her surveys unhelpfully, or even _untruthfully_. They seemed to think it was funny (and based on the proportion of students who laughed, objectively it probably _was_ funny, even if it didn't seem like it to her).

There were questions that were hard to pin down for other reasons, though. She'd begun to notice...odd things. Coincidences, you could call them, taken individually. Sometimes when she was particularly excited to look something up, the book she wanted seemed to leap off the shelf into her hand before she'd really pulled on it at all. The time she'd been having trouble tuning out other students' chattering at school while she read, then suddenly gone deaf for half the day. The horrifying occasion when she'd accidentally _torn_ the page of a library book - or thought she had - but when she looked at it again, the page was quite unblemished.

How could you account for that, though? Unlikely things didn't happen very often taken in isolation, but collect a few million people and have them do a few dozen things every day, and they happened to everyone, _all the time_. Just because Hermione seemed to notice more pleasant coincidences than not didn't mean that formed a _real pattern_. The idea of 'luck' was just a combination of superstition and people not understanding probability.

Besides, for every minor thing she might call mildly lucky, there were other examples of misfortune. Her front teeth, for example, protruded a bit. When other children had teased her about them, she'd done her best to ignore it, but she'd also naturally looked at a few books, and it seemed like something easily fixed with orthodontia. Yet when she'd brought it up to her parents - who were dentists, after all - she got nowhere. They seemed to think orthodontists were stuck-up and unjustly full of themselves and were thus quite against employing them for any reason.

Still, the question of these coincidences remained, tucked in the back of her head along with a few other open mysteries, like what caused differences in individual preferences (specifically, why so few other students ever cared to raise their hands in class), or why it was so hard for her to make friends. Things she kept lightly in mind, just in case she happened to read some odd fact or theory that might clear everything up.

One summer afternoon in 1991, after receiving a certain Letter, she did in fact read something that _purported_ to clear everything up. However, considering it did so by suggesting that nearly a third of everything else Hermione had ever read was wrong (or at least woefully incomplete), it was rather difficult to accept at face value.

Of course, it was possible it was just a prank - she'd been on the receiving end of many over the years - though if so it had required rather more research than anyone had gone to previously. It had been addressed with peculiar specificity, down to the position of her bedroom (First Bedroom on the Left, Second Floor), which, to her knowledge, none of her classmates knew, as she'd never had occasion to invite any of them over. But it would not have been all _that_ difficult to find out if someone had been properly determined.

If it _was_ a prank, however, she didn't see what the payoff would be, seeing as the letter had advised her to expect a school representative to arrive at her home in three days to 'explain the situation more fully' to her and her parents. If it had said she was to post a ten pound note 'for registration' or to go to some remote location where pranksters might show up and pelt her with toads or something similarly imaginative, that might have made more sense. But surely no prankster would be eager to face Mr. and Mrs. Granger, who were no-nonsense sort of people, and likely to give short shrift to any such shenanigans, particularly at their own home?

She'd have just asked her parents, but they were still at work, and the Letter gnawed at her, so naturally, she walked to the local library. After a couple hours of very interesting reading (primarily in the New Age and History sections), she'd decided that believing in things that didn't provide much helpful evidence was probably an effective way of practicing creativity, as the latter gave a strong showing in books on 'practical magic' while the former was seemingly absent. Nor was there any hint of the existence of any school called 'Hogwarts', past or present.

Two hours in a library might have exhausted the patience, curiosity (or likely, both) of an average eleven-year-old, but Hermione had been gifted with perseverance to match her intelligence, and she was not nearly inclined to give up yet - though unfortunately she didn't have much time before her parents were due home for dinner. Accordingly, she went to the reference desk and got the telephone numbers for every government agency she thought might be relevant to a school for magic, then walked home.


	3. A Short Visit

Hermione managed to call all of the numbers she'd collected at the library before her parents got home. The Department of Education and Science was the obvious first choice, but they claimed to have never heard of a school with 'Hogwarts' in the name (Hermione, slightly embarrassed, had omitted the remainder). The Land Register had just been opened to public inspection last year, and they hadn't fully staffed up in response, but a harried clerk assured her that there was no property in the UK by that name either.

Upon looking it up, Hermione had discovered to her surprise that the Witchcraft Act of 1735 had actually  _legalised_  witchcraft, sort of, by repealing all the laws in force at that time prohibiting it, and making it illegal instead to  _pretend_  to use witchcraft. These provisions had then been repealed in 1951 in favor of the Fraudlent Mediums Act, which narrowed the prohibitions even further, in that you had to be explicitly claiming it was genuine (as opposed to a form of entertainment),  _and_  faking it for material gain of some kind. A close reading of her invitation revealed that it didn't explicitly make any such claims, nor did it seem to be asking for any kind of tuition. Nevertheless, she called the Home Office to ask if there had been any prosecutions or investigations on the basis of a magical school - after several transfers, she was finally able to deliver a full explanation of the situation to a woman with an extremely patient phone manner. But she agreed with Hermione's assessment that under the circumstances she described, such a thing would probably not be illegal except under general "theft by deception" statutes, and only then if payment was exchanged  _and_  - after they had been given a reasonable opportunity to follow through - they  _failed_  to genuinely instruct. Nor was there any record of a past prosecution involving Hogwarts, or any other purported school of magic.

Last, Hermione called the Office of Population Censuses and Surveys, hoping they might know how many practicing witches or wizards there were, but after being put on hold for several minutes was informed that no question had been asked about religious affiliation, and no one had reported either 'witch' or 'wizard' as an occupation - 'fortune teller' was the closest they could find, and only 89 of those as of that year's census. Her parents had come home at that point and she'd reluctantly given up for the moment, though she didn't have an immediate idea for investigating further.

After dinner, Hermione showed the Letter (she realized by now she'd been capitalising it in her head, though she honestly couldn't say why) to her parents and asked them if they knew anything about it. Despite being somewhat more certain at this point that it was an oddly creative prank, she was surprised to find herself a bit disappointed at their reaction.

"It's obviously  _some_  sort of scam, though I can't imagine why they'd think anyone would believe such rubbish," opined Hermione's father.

"But they're not asking for money, it says they're sending someone around Saturday to explain," the girl pointed out.

"Ah, well it's likely these 'supplies', " he continued sagely. "'Dragon hide' gloves, spellbooks, a telescope...no doubt they have a preferred source, some second-hand store in the City. Whoever shows up will be a first-class hawker, mark me." Hermione's mother shook her head, though Hermione did note to herself that this might actually be a sufficient legal loophole to avoid prosecution on the basis of having been paid directly.

"You don't think they'd sink so low as to target  _children_ , would you?" she half-objected. "I'd think it quite more likely this was the work of one of Hermione's friends at school," she proposed, though she frowned a bit at the quality of the calligraphy on the envelope.

Hermione refrained from correcting her mother's standard delusion that she had friends at school. Classmates, yes. Friends, no. She just let them debate a while - if either of them offered an idea she hadn't already considered, she'd start paying attention. After excusing herself to the lounge, she resumed the book on apiology she'd been reading that morning, before any of this had started, though her thoughts kept drifting towards the Letter.

When the doorbell rang, she let her mother answer it as was their custom, though her heart skipped a beat for some reason.  _Don't be ridiculous,_  she told herself,  _it can't be about the Letter anyway, no one's due to come until the weekend._  But she heard her mother's over-polite 'company voice', and sure enough, she led someone into the lounge. It was a white-haired man, wearing an unremarkable suit and looking very dignified and proper, if one overlooked the impossible-to-overlook fact that he was only about three feet tall. Hermione's father trailed after, shooting disapproving glances at his wife, but maintaining an air of polite objectivity.

"Ah, and this would be your daughter, Hermione?" he asked. His voice was a high tenor - it matched his stature, and made Hermione think of a Christmas Elf.

"Er, yes," said her mother. "Hermione, this is, ah…"

"Professor Filius Flitwick," said the tiny man, his eyes twinkling merrily. Hermione tried not to stare, but how could you have a conversation without looking at someone...it'd seem like you were looking  _away_ , otherwise, which was really just as bad, wasn't it? Part of her noted quietly that miniature people should be a point in favor towards wizardry, but another, louder part objected that his height was entirely within the range of human variation...if at the far, far left end of the curve.

"Professor...from Hogwarts?" she asked.

"Quite correct, Miss Granger," he responded brightly.

"Now look," interjected her father, "I understand everyone needs to make a living, but I have to say that involving my daughter in this sort of thing is really beyond the pale." He shot another glance at Hermione's mother, clearly displeased the man had been invited in, but she only shrugged back at him helplessly. Professor Flitwick did not look offended - more amused, if anything.

"I assure you, the offer extended to Miss Granger is entirely genuine, and important for her own safety besides. She has already begun to use magic instinctively, and without instruction, well...things have occasionally been known to get out of hand." The wizened figure winked at Hermione, and she felt her chest get tight.

_Real. It was a pattern, it was real and he knows and…_

"To attend a school for…" her father cleared his throat, "Witchcraft and Wizardry. Really." He was using the same dry tone he used on patients who - despite showing up with four new caries - insisted that they'd brushed thoroughly after every meal and twice before bed. The little man smiled gently.

"I understand, really I do. It's surprising how well a job the Ministry does keeping everything under wraps from  _non-magical humans_ ," he stressed this phrase, as if it taking deliberate pains to use it in place of some other term, "but I suppose they've had a few hundred years to practice by now. If you've had enough satisfaction at thinking I'm some sort of charlatan or lunatic, I could just get on with demonstrating if you'd like?" Mr. Granger was somewhat taken aback by this response, and was clearly trying to decide whether or not to be offended.

"Please," said Hermione's mother. It was clear she was trying to communicate something to her husband with her eyes, but it came off mostly looking like her contact lens had come unseated. The little man withdrew what was quite obviously a wand from some sort of wrist holster, but merely held it, and regarded Hermione for a moment.

"Miss Granger. Your parents are relatively assured that magic, as such, does not exist, and you, I suspect, are...undecided. Is that accurate?" Hermione nodded, mutely. "Very well. Given this situation, how would  _you_  recommend I properly convince everyone?" The girl stared at him for a moment, then her mouth flew open as something in the core of her being realized that this was a  _professor_ , and he was  _giving her a test_.

"Well, if I  _assume_  for the moment that you  _can_  do magic," she began, gaining confidence at an approving nod from Flitwick, "you'd want to do something that we can't just explain away as a stage magician's trick. Something obviously,  _blatantly_  impossible. But not  _too_  impossible, or threatening, so no one gets frightened and starts off with a bad impression." The professor grinned broadly.

"Just so, Miss Granger! I'd award you House points on the spot, if not for the minor difficulties of term not having begun and you having not yet been Sorted." He pondered for a moment, then brightened. "Ah, I think I have just the thing. Now, so as not to startle anyone overmuch, though I do hate to ruin a good surprise, I'll give everyone fair warning of what's going to happen. I will twist my wand, and say a couple of words, and everything - that is to say, everything non-living - in this room will change colors. Yellow with pink spots, I think." The elder Grangers looked doubtful, but it was obvious their certainty was diminished a bit by the man's apparent confidence. "Should I be successful, can we agree for the moment to accept my words as genuine and my intentions as honorable for the remainder of the discussion? And if not, you may ask me to leave on the spot, and I shan't darken your doorstep again." Flitwick smiled serenely, waiting.

Hermione's parents glanced at each other, then nodded. Her father crossed his arms, and adopted his most serious, skeptical expression. Hermione herself merely nodded, watching so intently she'd stopped blinking.

" _Colovaria Cubiculum,_ " Flitwick intoned, giving his wand a precise twist.

And in an instant, everything changed.  _Everything_. The floor. The walls. The ceiling. The sofa, the chairs, the table. The fireplace, the  _wood_  in the fireplace. Everyone's  _clothes_. It was all yellow with pink spots.  _Bright_  yellow, with  _bright_  pink spots.

Hermione's parents managed not to freak out, though their hands stole together and clutched with a certain mutual urgency. Hermione felt a very brief spot of irritation, as a great many things she'd been quite certain of were unequivocally thrown into doubt or flatly contradicted. But it was dwarfed by the vistas opening up inside her, whole categories of learning she hadn't even known  _existed_. The girl wasn't merely excited, as any pre-adolescent child might be excited to discover they could learn to do real magic.

Hermione Granger  _hungered_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit: Thanks to AndrewWolfe for correcting a bad assumption on my part about what the Witchcraft Act meant, and that I'd failed to completely account for it being 1991 in terms of governmental organisation!


	4. Interlude - Introductio Consectandus

Minerva McGonagall, Transfiguration Professor and Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts, took a moment to center herself. The first meeting with the parents of a muggle-born student was always a delicate process. She had to undo decades of successful Ministry secrecy efforts, but gently enough to avoid presenting a poor impression of Wizarding society. She made some minute adjustments to the drab muggle dress she'd transfigured for the occasion, brought the family's proper names to mind to be sure she remembered them, then knocked firmly three times. After a moment, the door swung open, revealing a brown-haired woman in her early 30's.

"Ah, you must be Professor McGonagall, please do come in, we're almost ready. She's here," the woman added, calling over her shoulder back into the house, then held the door and stepped aside. The witch entered hesitantly, a bit nonplussed.

"Mrs. Emma Granger?" she verified.

"Yes, it's lovely to meet you," said the woman with a smile.

"Er, likewise, of course. I was...under the impression that your family was...that is to say, that you did not…"

"Oh, yes, we're 'muggles'," the brunette interjected, pronouncing the word carefully, with mild amusement. "That charming Professor Flitwick explained a great deal when he was kind enough to visit on Wednesday," the woman continued cheerfully. McGonagall's right eyelid twitched, and her left brow rose, as if it were a counterbalance.

" _Did_ he, now," she said, in a tone that would have set alarm bells ringing for any of her students, but which entirely escaped Mrs. Granger's notice. By all rights Minerva should have been grateful to have had the tricky part handled for her - and apparently quite well, if Mrs. Granger's attitude was any indication - but she'd spoken to Filius only yesterday and he hadn't mentioned visiting the Grangers at all. Though he _had_ been smiling a great deal, she recalled...

"Yes, _actual magic_ , and our Hermione is one of the rare few who get a chance to learn...we always knew she was special, of course, but we had no idea…" She trailed off and turned as a man and a young girl came down the stairs into the foyer. Mr. Granger was equally nondescript as his wife, but the child's eyes were as bright and alive. The Professor felt them examining her a bit more thoroughly than she was accustomed to, particularly from a student, and a suspicion began to blossom. "Professor, this is my husband Daniel, and of course Hermione. This is Professor McGonagall," she said to the others, completing the introductions.

"Good afternoon," McGonagall offered warmly. "I'm pleased to meet you, though I understand you had more warning of my arrival than the official letter?" The girl looked a bit abashed.

"I'm sorry, Professor. I know the letter said that a representative would be coming to answer all of our questions, but I just needed to understand, and when the library didn't help, I called several Ministerial departments asking about Hogwarts. Professor Flitwick said he had a friend in the...Obliviator Headquarters?...who let him know about 'incidents of a certain sort'. I suppose I ought to have waited..."

At once, the situation became more clear. She'd thought such 'poaching' behavior had passed from Hogwarts with Slughorn's retirement, but clearly Filius had been keeping an eye out for potential new House members. And if she were to be completely honest with herself, Miss Granger's approach did have a rather Ravenclaw 'feel' to it.

"You could not have known, of course, Miss Granger. Your initiative was commendable, and I am sure no lasting harm was done." Certainly not, if Filius had learned via an Obliviator. "Though I trust during his visit, Professor Flitwick stressed the importance of _secrecy_ from this point forward, when it comes to muggles other than your parents?" she asked, archly. The girl nodded, and her parents echoed the gesture. All of them wore slightly differing versions of a similar expression, one that said they were eager to follow the letter of every law and had nothing but respect for authority, but were nevertheless a bit uncertain about policemen who could _erase people's memories_. Which was as it should be. And now that she'd regained her footing, so to speak, Minerva felt more comfortable taking the meeting back into hand.

"I take it then that you've decided to accept the invitation, and I shall be escorting you to Diagon Alley to obtain Miss Granger's materials?" More nods.

"Yes," said Hermione's father. "We simply couldn't see her passing up what's apparently such a rare opportunity, and of course Hermione herself is quite keen on the idea of attending. Though we did have some questions Professor Flitwick thought better addressed to someone in the administration proper - you are Deputy Headmistress, yes?" Minerva nodded, one eyebrow edging skyward again. "Well," continued Mr. Granger, wilting slightly under her stern expression, "it's just, the books on the list...they're _all_ about magic. We'd wondered about, er... _normal_ things? Mathematics, literature, science, languages? Even history here, it says 'a History of _Magic_ '..." McGonagall waved a hand somewhat dismissively - this was a relatively common question from the parents of muggleborns.

"It is understood that a student should have received sufficient instruction in reading, writing, basic arithmetic, and etiquette at home - or in the 'compulsory system', in the case of muggleborns - before enrollment at Hogwarts. Any deficiencies in those areas will be quickly addressed by individual Professors as needed in the students' first year. As for Hogwarts' _core curriculum,_ it has been providing Witches and Wizards with a sufficiently broad education to produce _generally_ productive members of society-" she had her doubts about the prospects of the Weasley twins, "as well as preparation for advanced careers, for quite a few centuries." Her tone was not defensive, but merely matter-of-fact. "That _said_ , beginning in students' third year, they may add a number of elective subjects to their schedule, which do include _Arithmancy,_ " she tilted her head a bit forward here and emphasized the word, as if correcting his use of the term 'mathematics', "Muggle Studies, which includes both muggle history and literature and in later years touches on muggle 'science' as well, and a number of foreign languages, both modern and ancient."

Mr. and Mrs Granger rushed to assure her they hadn't meant to impugn the quality of Hogwarts' education, and of course that all sounded fine, Hermione was always taking on extra work at school, so they were sure she'd be kept busy, etc, etc. The girl herself remained silent, though her own eyebrow rose at the mention of Arithmancy, and she seemed to grow thoughtful after listening to the description of Muggle Studies. After establishing that there were no further questions for the moment, Professor McGonagall continued.

"Well, then. If you would kindly make your way to the Leaky Cauldron, 113 Charing Cross Road in London, by whatever method you would prefer - I shall wait upon your arrival there. I ask your forgiveness for not accompanying you for the entire journey, but I make it a personal policy to avoid muggle conveyances whenever possible," she apologized, with a tiny shudder. "Oh, and do bring at least-" she withdrew a small parchment from her handbag and consulted it, "fifty 'pounds' of muggle money, which should be sufficient for Hermione's basic supplies, though you may wish to bring more for other purchases or if you wish to provide your daughter with spending money for the year. You will have to get it exchanged first thing, of course, but the shops there will not accept, ah, ' _cards_ ', so I would advise erring on the side of excess in this matter."

"Excuse me, Professor," began Hermione, "but how will _you_ be getting there?" Minerva regarded her for a moment. The young lady had the curiosity of a Ravenclaw to be sure, but there might be courage there as well - while she was very respectful, she did not seem at all intimidated by authority. _Filius will just have to wait and see, won't he,_ Minerva thought with a small smile.

"Expeditiously," she said, and Disapparated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still working on pacing. This chapter came in a bit short so I decided to borrow an arrow from Wildbow's quiver and make it an interlude from McGonagall's perspective. Which reminds me, if anyone following this (hi, folks!) hasn't read Worm yet, get thee hence to parahumans dot wordpress dot com! I rather suspect you'll find far more joy there than in my own fledgling effort, at least if superpowers aren't a turn-off.
> 
> Edit: Thanks to /u/MonstrousBird for the Brit-pick, now I have to fix every mention of "public" school... :)


	5. Needful Things

The trip into London was uneventful. Hermione's parents spent most of the time contrasting their brief visit with Professor McGonagall to Professor Flitwick's visit, with a lot of comments on how _normal_ Professor McGonagall had seemed, aside from vanishing from their foyer before their eyes, of course. Hermione kept to herself, going over the encounter in her memory.

Professor McGonagall had seemed very...professorial. Not like Professor Flitwick, who'd been quite social and gone to considerable lengths to put everyone at ease. She was also obviously surprised to hear he'd visited them, which made Hermione curious. Clearly he hadn't mentioned it to her - maybe they just hadn't run into each other? But then why had she sounded so...put out about it? Hermione resolved to pay close attention to interactions between the Professors. It wouldn't do to get on anyone's bad side before even turning in a single assignment!

But that vanishing trick seemed quite useful, rather more so than turning an entire room colors, no matter how proud Professor Flitwick had seemed to be of the accomplishment. Hermione made another note to keep an eye out for that while reading her books, something she was frankly itching to begin. The past couple days waiting had been almost torture - Professor Flitwick had said there was probably no point in reading the Wicca and other 'magic' books at her library, which left her with little she could do to prepare.

She'd memorized the Letter, of course, including the list of books, equipment and supplies she would need. And after hearing the Professor's explanations about 'Accidental Magic', she went over all her memories of the odd 'lucky' experiences she'd had over the years, writing them down in as much detail as she could remember and going over common features. It seemed clear that emotion was a frequent contributor, if not necessarily intent. But _need_ had been an element of almost all of them, and that made her wonder a bit about her priorities, but only for a moment. Books were _important_ , after all. But she hadn't tried to do any more Accidental Magic on purpose, partially since the very concept was rather contradictory, but more because of Professor Flitwick's intimations that though it rarely caused lasting or irreversible harm, Accidental Magic _could_ on occasion be dangerous.

So instead she'd resorted to one of her problem-solving techniques, which told her that if she couldn't do anything productive at one level of the problem, to move up or down a level and try again. She'd seen for herself that precise wand motions were important, so she'd checked out a few books on increasing her manual dexterity, and had spent several hours working through both juggling and sleight of hand exercises. From what Professor Flitwick had said, spellbooks weren't referred to in practical situations, spells were meant to be entirely memorized, so she re-read her books on mnemonics as well.

But finally the day had arrived, they were here, and they were approaching number 113. Hermione felt as if her eyes were sponges, ready to soak in every detail and file it away for proper consideration.

The Leaky Cauldron was, accordingly, something of a disappointment.

"A pub?" said Hermione with mild incredulity. Little more than a small window and a door, hardly noticeable between the large and busy shops on either side of it. But then, Witches did apparently have that concern about secrecy, so she supposed they'd _want_ it to be easily missed. Her parents, however, were scrutinizing the pocket street map they'd brought, looking back and forth between the bookshop and record store.

"Maybe it's one of those out-of-sequence places, further up or down a ways?" mused Mr Granger. Hermione, perplexed, cleared her throat, glancing at the pub's entrance.

"Not by the listings...not that there was a listing for this place anyway," observed Hermione's mother.

"Um," said Hermione.

"She really ought to have given us landmarks if it was going to be trouble to find," complained her father.

"Hey!" Hermione interrupted, raising her voice a bit. Her parents turned to her, looking surprised and a bit irritated. "I'm sorry," said the girl, "but it's _right there,_ " she explained, pointing. The couple looked at the bookshop, then the record store, then their daughter. Their eyes didn't even slow as they passed over the door of the pub. Admittedly, it was extremely dingy, but it's not like it was _hidden_. Unless...secrecy…?

"Take my hands," she said suddenly, reaching an arm up towards each of her parents. For a moment it seemed they would object, but they looked at each other, then did as she asked.

Their mouths fell open.

"I guess that means you can see it now?" asked Hermione excitedly. "Let's go, then!" She tugged them forward, and her father opened the door to the pub with his free hand, staring in wonderment. As the three entered the darkened interior, they saw Professor McGonagall stopping short in front of them, looking quite different - the drab flower print had been replaced with an elaborate pointed hat and a sort of formal robes in emerald green.

"I was just coming out to explain how to resolve the protections against muggles noticing the Leaky Cauldron, but I see Miss Granger has worked that out on her own," she said, sounding mildly impressed. "Well, it's done at any rate, so shall we get started?" The Professor spun and led them through the pub towards the back, the hem of her robes waving gently with the vigor of her stride, and somehow looking much more natural than the very normal dress she'd been wearing before.

The other denizens of the Leaky Cauldron wore a collection of equally unusual garments, and glanced with mild interest at the Grangers as they passed. Hermione's parents seemed freshly intimidated by the suddenly-appearing pub door and the mild strangeness inside and stared fixedly at the Professor's back, while Hermione instead tried to look around in every direction at once, lingering on the chalkboard listing drinks and dishes on offer (Butterbeer - two sickles, Gillywater - three sickles, Vagabond's Pillow - five sickles, eleven knuts), as well as the sole book visible - being read by a young man in the corner, it was titled 'Creatures of the Far East and Which Parts of You They Find Delicious'. But before she could really begin to puzzle out the illustration on the back, they were already through, and into a cramped courtyard.

It had the look of exactly the sort of place - had this actually been an elaborate ruse - where a couple of toughs would've emerged from the shadows and demanded all of the Grangers' money and valuables. But before Hermione's parents had time to form such thoughts, McGonagall had withdrawn her wand from her robes and smartly tapped a particular brick in the courtyard wall three times. There was an eye-twisting rearrangement of the bricks into an archway, beyond which was a bustle of color and activity. The Professor urged them through, then followed herself, the archway shifting back into a solid wall as quickly as it had formed.

Diagon Alley was impossible in several ways. First, it clearly couldn't fit where it was situated, at least not if Hermione's parents' street map was at all accurate. Second, many of the buildings looked as if not only building codes but indeed fundamental principles of load and balance were not so much _laws_ as polite _suggestions_ , easily worked around if you were in a hurry. And Third...it was _too much_. Her parents might've been rooted to the spot if they hadn't feared losing Professor McGonagall in the busy streets. Whereas every direction Hermione looked revealed at least a dozen things she didn't understand and would dearly like to have had explained to her (or have her guesses confirmed), except half of them would be gone when she glanced back and every step they took brought _another_ dozen into view.

In desperation, Hermione focused on _just_ memorizing the names and locations of each shop they passed, with a few examples of what seemed to be on display in the windows - and giving special attention towards any that seemed to sell books, of course.

The Professor's businesslike pace brought them quickly within sight of Gringotts, whose bright and straightforward architecture quite clearly stated 'I am a _Bank_. I am sturdy and reliable - indeed _impregnable_ \- and none of that haphazard tilting nonsense will be brooked _here_ , thank you kindly.' The very normalcy of it - even if the bronze doors were a bit ostentatious - helped the elder Grangers relax a bit.

"Some muggles are taken aback at discovering that Gringotts is a goblin-run bank," said Professor McGonagall suddenly as they approached. "A few have even screamed upon seeing their first goblin, though you seem more open-minded than that sort," she added with elaborate casualness, aiming a friendly glance towards Hermione's parents. Hermione wasn't sure she'd ever heard anyone refer to her parents as _open-minded_ , but having heard themselves suggested as such, they'd no doubt be doing their best to live up to that expectation. Just in time, too, as there was in fact a goblin standing guard outside the bank. Mr. and Mrs. Granger nodded politely to him, trying not to let their eyes widen, while Hermione examined him as closely as she could without actually staring, and added another fifty or so questions to her mental list of things she needed to know immediately or sooner.

The Professor coached Mr. Granger through the relatively simple money-changing transaction. He had to do it himself, as the goblins took fiduciary responsibility _very_ seriously, and would not allow the Professor to act as an intermediary without a lot of tedious documentation - which they would also have charged various fees to witness and certify. Mostly she stressed that he should _not_ count the coins as he received them. Hermione's father actually seemed a bit _more_ nervous due to all of the fuss, but managed to get through without incident. He'd apparently taken the Professor's advice about excess to heart, as he'd given the teller around three hundred pounds, and received three sizeable bags of coin in return. After leaving Gringotts, the family examined some of the coins curiously while Professor McGonagall explained the coins' relative values.

"They're so light, but solid," remarked Mrs. Granger, hefting a couple of Galleons in her palm. "Gold is at two-eleven per troy, isn't it, dear-" she glanced at her husband, who nodded, "so at five pounds to the Galleon there can't be much more than a third of an ounce of gold in each coin. What's the rest?" Dentists had to buy metals for fillings regularly, and she seemed relieved to have something familiar to discuss for a moment.

"Magic," said Professor McGonagall, with a prim smile. "As I understand it, the minting process makes counterfeiting quite difficult while also enhancing durability, though goblins are quite reluctant to discuss the details of their metal-magics with outsiders." Mrs. Granger's brief comfort slipped visibly from her face. Hermione was still thinking it over, however.

"What do the goblins do with the normal...ah, muggle money they get?", she asked. Without people on each side frequently buying things from those on the other, she wasn't sure her mother's assumptions about the exchange rates made sense. Professor McGonagall frowned, then shrugged.

"I'm sure I do not know...I suppose they keep it on hand for customers who need exchanges in the other direction?" She seemed about to say something else, but visibly changed her mind. "Best get you to Madam Malkin for a fitting first, then we can complete the rest of your shopping while she's preparing your uniforms and pick them up after." The tall woman strode away, leaving the Grangers to scramble in her wake to catch up. Hermione's mental list was getting rather long, and she resolved to write it down as soon as she had a pen and paper.

The fitting went smoothly, though Professor McGonagall waited outside with Hermione's parents so she had no chance to ask any useful questions - Madam Malkin was extremely focused on her task, which Hermione found commendable in general but a bit irritating in this particular circumstance. She began to worry that Professor McGonagall's efficiency would be equally inconvenient, not allowing her any time to explore more than the bare minimum, and used the remainder of her fitting to work out a solution to that problem. Outside the shop, she tried to put it into practice.

"Um, I was thinking, rather than visiting each shop in turn, maybe we could split up? The larger book shop - Flourish and Blotts, was it? - looked rather busy. I could go there and get all the books...I mean, well, not _all_ the books-" she laughed nervously, "but the ones on the list, plus you know, if I saw one or two other interesting ones...while you three went around for the other things?" It really _was_ a good idea - the fact that it'd let her have as much time as possible to peruse the book stores was just a happy bonus, wasn't it?

Her parents were accustomed to this sort of negotiation, and chuckled. They didn't have a problem with it, but checked with Professor McGonagall. The older witch shook her head ruefully and muttered something Hermione didn't catch, though it sounded like it ended with '-claws', but also didn't see a problem with it, as long as Hermione stayed in the shops on Diagon Alley proper, taking - and she stressed this - _no side streets_. Hermione cheerfully agreed to this condition, though of course she had to ask why. The Professor did that eyebrow thing she did for a moment, then admitted that the street connected to other areas, 'less appropriate for children'. Whereupon her parents reconsidered their earlier agreement, and Hermione had to convince them she was entirely responsible and only wanted to look in bookstores, and she'd done the same thing in the City before, and it's not as if there weren't some unpleasant parts of London…

In the end, they gave in. She _was_ very, very responsible for a girl her age, after all.

o-o-o

A couple hours later, the little fellowship had reformed, quite a few galleons lighter but along with the other items and supplies, over a dozen books heavier. Even Hermione's parents hadn't been able to resist picking something up from one of the book shops they'd checked before locating their daughter - 'So, Your Daughter's a Witch: A Guide to Magical Adolescence'. It wasn't written with muggles in mind particularly, but it didn't seem to be aimed at a particularly intelligent audience so they figured they could puzzle things out from context. All that remained now was to buy Hermione's wand, so Professor McGonagall led the way to Ollivanders Wand Shop. The sign read 'Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C.', and Hermione scratched another question onto her list with the self-inking quill she'd since acquired.

"We shall wait outside for you, Miss Granger," declared Professor McGonagall.

"Oh...is wand-buying a private process?" asked Hermione, fascinated. McGonagall pursed her lips.

"Personal, certainly, but not particularly private - it's just that it can occasionally take time and it would be quite cramped inside for four." Hermione was somewhat nonplussed by the answer, but nodded. She collected a handful of galleons from her parents, then entered the shop.

She could see immediately what McGonagall meant - the shop was narrow to begin with, and tightened further by shelves of long narrow boxes covering every available inch of the walls. No one was immediately visible, but the door caused a bell to ring somewhere in the rear of the shop. She studied the boxes while she waited. Few of them were labeled in any way, unless the color of the box was some sort of code. Though many of the boxes were so coated in dust the color wasn't even immediately apparent. Hermione wondered why they would keep so much unsold inventory in a shop so small. With wands a seemingly central part of magical life, she'd have expected it to be much more like an electronics store showroom, with various models displayed prominently - as other shops had in fact displayed broomsticks, come to think of it.

"It's a problem of selection, you see," issued a soft voice behind her. Hermione whirled around with a startled 'eep'. She stopped as she came to face a white-haired old man who was watching her quietly. There was something odd about his eyes.

"Sorry?" Hermione asked when she'd regained her composure, not sure if the man had been literally answering her thoughts, but not ruling it out either. He waved a hand lazily at the shelves surrounding them.

"Selection. But in reverse - 'the Wand chooses the Wizard', as goes the saying. Or Witch, of course, but it's a very old saying, you know," he elaborated, apologetically. "Wands do not think, not _truly_. But they can mirror our emotions in many ways. They _feel_. A wand is an extension of your personal essence, and the ideal wand is matched to that essence as closely as possible." Hermione drank in the words greedily. _This_ was clearly someone who knew things worth hearing.

"So you need to keep a disproportionately wide variety of wands on hand, since you never know what will be needed until someone walks in?" she confirmed.

"Just so," said the man, his eyes twinkling. They were not just light grey, but actually silver. Hermione wondered if he had non-human ancestry, like Professor Flitwick, or if sliver eyes were just a natural variation for wizards.

"Garrick Ollivander," said the man, introducing himself. "And your name, young lady?"

"Hermione Granger," she said, after offering her hand politely. At her name, the man stiffened slightly in the act of shaking her hand.

"Just so," he whispered, in a strange echo of himself. For a moment he just stared at her, until Hermione began to shift uncomfortably, and he seemed to shake himself out of a daze. "Muggle-born, I see," he noted, glancing down at her clothes, "I suppose you've no hint of your ancestry...magical, that is?" Hermione shrugged.

"If anyone in our family has known about magic, they certainly never mentioned it to us - we were all quite surprised - though it sounds like they would've been _expected_ to keep it to themselves?" The old man nodded, then began to peruse the shelves, muttering to himself.

"No, no...no...I know it's here somewhere." He moved further into the shop and climbed most of the way up a ladder, craning his neck to examine more out-of-the-way boxes. "Have to try it of course, after so _long_ …ah." The old man stretched an arm up to extract a box from a shelf near the ceiling, then clambered back down to rejoin Hermione. The box was actually itself made of wood, carved with intricate vines. He slid back the lid and withdrew a delicate-looking wand of a pale tan wood. "Muggle-born...which hand do you write with?" he asked.

"Right," said Hermione, raising that hand. Ollivander extended the wand to her, thick end first. It had been intricately carved, making it seem as if six vines had twined around each other to form the shaft. She took the wand gently, her fingertips nestling easily into the gaps in the carving, and at the man's urging motion, waved it through the air. Immediately the tip gave off white sparks, and Hermione felt a tingle up her right arm. She was thrilled and amazed, but Ollivander wasn't done yet.

"Now the left," he said, leaning forward slightly. Hermione obediently switched the wand to her left hand and waved it similarly. This time, a thin line of blue vapor trailed behind the wand's tip, swirling slightly in the air. Ollivander's eyes widened. "There it is, then," he whispered. Hermione was distracted from her pleasure at producing the trail of smoke, which was both pretty and fascinating, and gave the wandmaker a somewhat vexed look.

"Um. I have to ask, because you keep whispering like that, and you seemed to recognize my name...is there something unusual about me? Or this wand? It seems quite old, but it looked like you picked it out specifically, and Professor McGonagall said that buying a wand can sometimes take a long time, which - along with the old saying you mentioned - implies I might have to test a few out, like shoes, only this one does seem to have worked quite well on the first try, which means you _expected_ it would work for me in particular for some reason…" Hermione rambled a bit, because she still wasn't comfortable enough with magical customs...maybe speaking in hushed tones was just a normal part of the process?...but the whole experience had been a bit weird.

Ollivander regarded her for a moment, clearly weighing his words, then nodded to himself, seeming to come to a decision, and shrugged.

"'Unusual'? I couldn't say - we are each unique in our own way, are we not? But to be sure, you are meant for that wand...among other things. You have a _destiny_ , Hermione Granger. But I think that if you knew it in full, you might not necessarily fulfill it as naturally." His words dripped with meaning and portent, but also a sort of absent casualness (which was a trick common to wandmakers).

"I _really_ need to know what all of that means, absolute top of the list, right now. And if this is just some sort of terribly elaborate sales pitch, I shall be _very_ cross and ask Professor McGonagall to help me buy a wand somewhere else," said the girl, crossing her arms and attempting to sound stern, though there was a note of pleading in her demand as well. The old wandmaker shook his head and withdrew a gnarled dark wand from his robes.

"I have little doubt you will learn...everything in Time, Miss Granger. But it will not have been now, nor from me," he intoned. Hermione's brow furrowed at his choice of phrasing, but before she could complain about it, a bright flash issued from the tip of Ollivander's wand, and she was Obliviated.

For the _second_ time that day.

o-o-o

Hermione emerged from the shop, swishing her new wand and staring wonderingly at the white sparks.

"I see your purchase went well," remarked Professor McGonagall. Hermione nodded absently, still staring at her wand.

"I had to try out almost a dozen until this one worked. Vine wood, with a dragon heartstring core, apparently? Is it always white sparks," she asked, producing another burst of them, "or does that depend on the person? I meant to ask Mr. Ollivander, but I...guess I got distracted." Her brow furrowed a little, but her train of thought was broken by Professor McGonagall's reply.

"Usually sparks, the color may vary, and please refrain for the moment, Miss Granger?" Hermione stopped swishing her wand, looking contrite. "There is a law that prohibits under-aged children from using magic outside of the auspices of appropriate magical supervision, with a few extremely limited exceptions," continued the Professor. Hermione was appalled, and her mouth fell open for a moment.

"I can't _practice_ at home?"

A respectful but lively debate on Ministry policy ensued as they receded from the shop towards the Leaky Cauldron, their progress followed, unnoticed, by a pair of silvery eyes behind a darkened upper window.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for being patient with all this set-up and mysterious foreshadowing. I promise we'll actually get on the Express next chapter, and start taking canon really off the rails (see what I did there?).


	6. Revision

The days until Hermione could leave for Hogwarts seemed to drag at first. She was extremely eager to study her actual school books, but Professor McGonagall had been quite explicit that practising spellcasting or potion making at home was 'quite out of the question'. Since that was the obvious next step after memorizing them, she knew that _not_ being able to practice would drive her 'round the bend, so she decided to save them until the last possible minute.

Instead, she tore her way (metaphorically!) through the other books she'd picked up. After all, there was a lot of background information most of the other students would already know just by virtue of having grown up in wizarding homes. She figured it might well make learning actual magic easier to have that down first.

She'd read _Modern Magical History_ , _Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century_ , _The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts_ , and of course _Hogwarts, A History_. Then she'd read them again. She tried a third time, but she'd basically memorized them by that point.

And that was the first week.

After a couple of days of making notes on what she'd read and trying to draw some new conclusions, she convinced her mother to take her back to Diagon Alley for more books to fill in obvious gaps in her knowledge. She'd also suggested that there were a few things she'd read about that her mother really ought to buy right away and keep around the house - potions and pre-enchanted items that muggles could still _use_ , even if they couldn't _make_ them, for emergency first-aid and such. She _was_ a little uncertain as to what interactions there might be - if say, heaven-forbid, her parents had a need for a blood-replenishing potion, it might end up confusing doctors after going to the hospital, and if they couldn't _tell_ them what they'd taken… Hermione decided until she could confirm with someone knowledgeable about both magic and muggle medicine - if such a person existed - that such things wouldn't do more harm than good, she'd only recommend ostensibly 'naturopathic' remedies, like Essence of Dittany and the like.

Hermione ended up buying _An Appraisal of Magical Education in Europe_ , _Hogwarts Houses: Heaven-Sent or Hardly Worth It?_ , _Dragon Species of Great Britain and Ireland_ , a copy of the _Legislative Guide to the Proper Use of Magic_ , _Practical Household Magic_ and the _Standard Book of Spells, Grade 2_. She'd selected the latter two to make sure she would have enough materials to work beyond the standard curriculum if she needed to, but firmly placed them with the other school books she was holding off on reading. The rest she read, and re-read, and took notes on.

And that was the second and third week.

Now there were only two weeks left, and though Hermione did understand on some level how smart she was, and took innocent joy in sharing things she'd learned with other people, she'd somehow never developed overconfidence when it came to _studying_. So with 'so little time' remaining, she was starting to get a bit nervous and finally dove into the _actual_ books her Hogwarts classes had assigned, reading each of them at _least_ three times, to be sure she'd fully memorized every word.

And that was the fourth week.

Having memorized her copy of _Magical Theory_ , Hermione was now quite confident she could control when she tried to do magic and when she didn't. More specifically, that it would be safe to practice spell incantations and wand motions with no actual intent to cast a spell without either running afoul of the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery, _o_ r producing Accidental Magic. But she didn't want to risk associating a mental habit of _not_ intending to cast a spell along with the full motions and wording, so she decided to practice each element separately instead.

In that vein, she broke down the wand movements from all the spells in the Standard books (Grade 1 and 2) as well as _Practical Household Magic_ , and found that there were a great many common elements - swishes, flicks, circles (widdershins and deosil) and so on - that, if mastered, would make it much easier to quickly learn _any_ spell, so she drew up a practice schedule. She also continued on with her juggling and sleight-of-hand exercises, and made a point of practicing the wand motions with either hand.

The incantations were another matter. The vast majority of them _seemed_ to be based on Classical Latin, though the pronunciation often differed from the accepted norms. Given how long magical history seemed to stretch back, Hermione surmised that the magical pronunciation might actually be closer to the _genuine_ original usage, since for muggles Latin was a 'dead language' and the accepted pronunciations had been reconstructed largely through theory, whereas wizards had apparently been using them continuously for at _least_ twenty-five hundred years. Either that, or there was some magical significance to _changes_ in normal pronunciation, but if that was the case, it wasn't discussed in Waffling's introductory text. Hermione made a note to look into it when she had a chance, but for the moment, she sensibly practiced the incantations according to her Hogwarts books and _not_ the ones from her local library.

Finally, the date marked on the ticket Professor McGonagall had given her came. Hermione made sure her parents got her to Kings Cross Station by 8 AM, a good three hours before the Hogwarts Express was scheduled to depart. Partially this was just due to her naturally responsible nature, but part of it was due to a loophole (though Hermione refused to use that term, even in her head, and firmly considered it an 'interesting fact') she had discovered in the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery. Namely that the Hogwarts Express, being wholly owned and operated by the school, was _legally_ considered part of Hogwarts itself, and thus the Decree did not apply to spells cast while _on the train_. It didn't even have to be in motion. And since the train (and platform nine and three-quarters) was used solely for the purpose of transporting Hogwarts students, it arrived at the station quite early in the morning and simply sat there until the posted departure time. Taken together, that meant an enterprising student might theoretically get in nearly _twelve hours_ (counting travel time) of spellcasting practice, at least ninety minutes of which were likely to be largely uninterrupted.

After Professor McGonagall's thorough explanation, Hermione had accepted that the law was primarily meant to avoid students endangering themselves or others while trained professionals were not conveniently nearby to undo the results of any mishaps. So in that sense, since school faculty usually arrived at Hogwarts well before classes began and thus were typically not present on the Express, casting spells on the train might be considered violating the _spirit_ of the Decree, if not the letter. Hermione wrestled with this ethical dilemma for some time, but eventually decided that since she intended to be very responsible and only practice the simplest and most harmless spells, and even then, there _would_ be upper-year Prefects on the train who could be summoned in an emergency, that it would be irresponsible of her _not_ to take advantage of the very limited window of opportunity she'd found to practice before arriving at the school, and would thus try not to feel too bad about it.

After arriving at King's Cross Station, her parents helped her get her trunks (she'd ended up needing two, to fit all the extra books - magical and muggle - she'd wanted to bring) onto a cart and accompanied her to to the vicinity of platform 10.

"Well," said Hermione's father. "I guess this is where we get off." Her mother was smiling but clearly trying to hold back tears. Hermione had never really been away from home for any length of time, and now she was going to leave for nearly _four months_ , until Christmas break. Hermione suddenly regretted asking to be dropped off early so she could get extra practice. The train ride itself was over eight hours long, she could've spent the extra three hours having breakfast with her parents, watching mum and dad trade sections of the Times, double-checking to make sure she hadn't left any books she'd regret not having.

"You could come onto the platform with me, I'm sure it would be all right," she said.

"No, no...I'll just make a scene," insisted her mother. "I don't want to give the...other parents a worse impression of us than…" she trailed off without finishing the thought. The three stood in awkward silence for a moment. They all knew - Hermione from her extensive reading, the Grangers from various anecdotes in So, Your Daughter's a Witch - that the typical magical attitude towards muggles could be described as, at best, 'condescendingly tolerant'. The young girl suddenly hugged her parents fiercely.

"I love you so much...I miss you already! I'll try to make you proud," she said, her face half-buried between their shoulders as they crouched down to hug her properly.

"Of _course_ you will, sweetheart. You're destined for great things," whispered her father, huskily, his voice slightly muffled by her stubbornly bushy hair. Hermione felt a twinge of alarm, and deja vu. The word ' _destiny_ ' floated through her mind, but couldn't find anything to attach to and faded away, taking the alarm with it. They held each other for as long as they could ignore the disruption they were causing in traffic between the platforms, and even a few moments beyond, but the Granger responsibility streak ran deep, and they broke apart.

"I snuck extra brushes and paste into your trunk, enough for an entire term...for all we know they're still using swine bristles and ground oyster shells," said Mr. Granger, trying to lighten the mood.

"I read once of an old toothpaste recipe that included 'dragon's blood'," Mrs. Granger added, smiling tremulously. Hermione laughed nervously with both of them, and did not mention that her book on dragons had in fact noted the creatures' blood had many uses, including cleaning properties, and was mostly non-toxic, so the anecdote was more plausible than it sounded. She took a deep breath.

"Okay. I'm ready. Help me get it going?" Hermione asked. The cart was tricky to start moving, so loaded down as it was. Her parents took hold of the cart's handle on either side of their daughter and pushed until she could guide it alone. Hermione made sure it was aimed properly at the barrier between platforms nine and ten, then turned to wave over her shoulder at them as she pushed until there was a sudden shimmer, then her parents were gone, and she was looking back at wrought-iron archway labeled 'Platform 9 ¾'.

o-o-o

Hermione sunk back into one of the seats of her compartment, relieved. She'd tested a few of the simple spells from _Practical Household Magic_ , and they'd all worked perfectly on her first try (the upholstery in the compartment was now quite fresh, the windows were spotless and the compartment door opened and closed smoothly with nary a sound). In fact, they were _easy_. Which she supposed was the point...if household spells were difficult, people would just do those things the normal way, wouldn't they?

As it happened, she'd ended up casting her first spell almost immediately after arriving. The platform was quite deserted - if there were to be any porters for the train, they hadn't arrived yet, and Hermione was left to puzzle out how to get her two heavy trunks up the stairs into a car on her own. A quick mental review of the contents of _Practical Household Magic_ suggested a Floating Charm, which was recommended for use when you had weighty things to carry but didn't want to pay the fixed attention to them a Levitation Charm would require. She'd stepped onto the stairs into the car first - so she was technically _on the train_ , as her narrow interpretation of the law required - ran through the incantation and gesture a few times in her mind, and only then went ahead and tried it on her trunks. Sure enough, their weight had been essentially removed, so she could just tug them behind her as if they were half-filled helium balloons, albeit ones that still retained the _inertia_ of fully-loaded trunks.

And the excitement from a properly cast spell was, well...almost addictive. Her memory of producing sparks from her wand - after trying several that did nothing - that first time in Ollivanders felt curiously matter-of-fact, almost dull, as if she'd done it (or seen it done) innumerable times. But _this_...this was something else, entirely. Sometimes, when she'd been reading a particularly advanced book or working out some tricky bit of math and suddenly understood a concept or realized what the solution was, there was this wonderful _feeling_ , mostly in her head (her mother had said it was probably 'endorphins'). But casting spells, it was like that, only in her head, _and_ her arm, and sometimes her whole body.

Concerned that if she let herself become distracted by continuing to test spells, she'd lose track of time, Hermione elected to change into her school robes now to get it out of the way. She didn't have a particular aversion to changing in front of other girls if she ended up sharing the compartment, but there was nothing to say the compartments would be segregated by gender, so there might well be boys, too. While Hogwarts _was_ a boarding school, so she assumed the other students would be more mature than her previous classmates had been, she hadn't checked the size of the train bathrooms yet, so she decided better to be safe than sorry. Once she'd finished and packed away her muggle clothing, she went back to trying out spells.

Eventually, Hermione began to notice a lot more people though the outside and inside windows. Her stomach fluttered a bit as she imagined meeting other students. She hoped she'd read enough to make a good impression. Maybe things here would be different, since witches and wizards were so rare, everyone would have something in common and make friends naturally and there wouldn't be any _issues_ …

The door to the compartment slid open (still noiselessly) and a girl entered. She was Hermione's age, and also already wearing her Hogwarts robes, though she was quite pretty, with dazzling red hair.

"Are any of these seats taken?" she asked.

"Not yet, feel free," responded Hermione cheerfully. "I'm Hermione Granger," she added.

"Mary Sue Bottomwater, nice to meet you," the girl said, with almost saccharine sweetness. Hermione's reading had prepared her for the sometimes bizarre wizard surnames, but this seemed like a _particularly_ silly example, and she had to make a deliberate effort not to react to it. "Are you a first-year too?" the girl asked.

"Oh, yes. I'm a bit nervous, to be honest, but excited. You?" Mary Sue shrugged at Hermione's question.

"I wouldn't say nervous, but I'm _very_ excited, I can't wait. Usually there's an exam first thing. I suppose you've already finished memorizing all your school books too?" she asked casually. Hermione's smile faltered. There would be an exam as soon as they got there? She hadn't read anything about that…

"I have, but I didn't know there'd be an exam so soon...I should probably do some revision on the way just to be sure," she answered, uncertainly. Mary Sue's eyes widened, and her smile broadened in what Hermione utterly failed to interpret as a 'devilish' way.

"Oh, good!" exclaimed the girl. "We can quiz each other! Me first. What was the trigger for the 1486 Goblin Rebellion?"

"Oh, um...it's believed to be a reaction to Yardley Platt, the notorious Dark Wizard who made a hobby of horrifically murdering goblins. Let's see, what's the second ingredient in a Forgetfulness Potion?" Mary Sue seemed surprised Hermione had answered so quickly, but came back quickly herself.

"Two Valerian sprigs," she answered, correctly. "What syllables are stressed in the Levitation Charm?"

"'Gar' and 'o'," responded Hermione. "What's the Second Principle of Transfiguration?"

"The more similarities two things share to begin with, the less concentration it takes to change one to the other. How can you tell a Devil's Snare from a Flitterbloom?"

The girls went back and forth in this fashion for several minutes, Hermione getting more and more enthusiastic while Mary Sue seemed to become increasingly frustrated and suspicious. Finally, the redhead threw her hands up in exasperation and her voice dropped an octave and lost all pretense at cheerfulness.

"Alright, let's come clean. Obviously you're not a first year - if Charlie told you about my brilliant prank idea even though he _swore_ he wouldn't, I am going to give him a hex he won't soon forget! Unless you _are_ Charlie?" The girl narrowed her eyes suspiciously.

"What?" asked Hermione, quite confused by the sudden turn the conversation had taken.

"Oh, come off it. Tell me who you really are, or I'll see for myself," Mary Sue said warningly.

"I already told you, my name's Hermione Granger. What are you talking about? What prank?"

"Have it your way, then," the other girl said grimly, drawing her wand - yellowish, with dark brown rings up the shaft. She pointed it at Hermione, made a complicated half-twist with a figure-eight loop and said, " _Homorphus!_ ". Hermione gaped at her and drew her own wand, though she couldn't bring a defensive spell to mind before Mary Sue finished her own. But nothing seemed to happen, other than Mary Sue's expression becoming as confused as Hermione's.

"I know it's _technically_ legal to cast spells on the Hogwarts Express, but I'm fairly certain students casting spells _at_ each other is at the very least frowned upon if not expressly forbidden," said Hermione sternly. "Besides, I don't even know what that spell was supposed to _do_ , and I've read all the way through Grade 2...who are _you_ , then?"

"So...you _are_ a first year? And you've _actually_ memorized all your school books?" the girl asked, ignoring Hermione's question for the moment.

"Yes, of course!" said Hermione, a bit testily. "Is that...not something Hogwarts students normally do?" she asked, somewhat hesitantly. She'd been so relieved when the girl had first mentioned that… Mary Sue meanwhile sat heavily onto one of the compartments' seats and laughed, shaking her head ruefully.

"Serves me right, I guess," she said, seemingly to herself. "Charlie will wet himself when he hears, though I suppose he's actually in Romania by now." She waved her wand over her black Hogwarts robes, which shimmered and became a rather larger set of open brown leather robes, over another blousy set in shades of black and grey. The girl herself shook slightly and _grew_ to fill out the clothes - she looked several years older now - while her face became somewhat less pretty and her hair turned, for some reason, purple. She tucked her wand into a sleeve.

"Name's actually Tonks," she said to Hermione. "Graduated last year, and thought I'd have a spot of fun since I happened to have a free day, and get in some infiltration practice. Some first-years show up thinking they already know everything and it's good to deflate them a bit, whereas others can use a good scare to break the tension, and maybe a few kindly tips for any who are _already_ scared to death and need a little lift. When you claimed you'd memorized your books, I thought you were just copying me and were the first sort, but I guess you actually _do_ know everything." She grinned. Hermione just stared at her for a moment. If this was the sort of thing Hogwarts _graduates_ thought was a good idea, her hopes about the maturity level of boarding school students seemed rather less likely to be fulfilled. She put her own wand away, with mild reluctance.

"I don't know _everything_...I've only had five weeks or so to read," she said, a bit defensively. "But you're saying...to scare first-years, you Transfigured yourself, and were pretending to have memorized all your books." Hermione wasn't sure how to feel about that. It seemed a bit far to go for a prank, and besides that, it didn't sound particularly complimentary towards Hermione herself.

"I have a trick for that, actually. And hey," said Tonks, noticing the downturn in Hermione's mood, "don't sweat it. It's nothing to be ashamed of...imagine all the free time you'll have, not needing to study!"

"I suppose…" said Hermione, though she found it difficult to imagine _not_ studying.

"Well, you could always help _other_ people study. That's actually a good tip for someone like you, come to think of it. You know about House points and all that?" Hermione nodded. "Well, the better Professors will give you just as many - if not more - points for helping students in _other_ houses as they do for actually answering questions in class yourself. Just a thought," she finished, offhandedly.

"Were you in Hufflepuff?" asked Hermione.

"Yep. That obvious?"

"Well, your suggestion _did_ seem very Hufflepuff, from what I've read. Though I've also read that the supposed House virtues aren't quite so fundamental as they're made out to be. I've been very curious what House I'll be Sorted into, you see." Tonks laughed again.

"I'm not the most Puffy of 'Puffs, I'll admit. I can't help looking for ways to get around rules, it's a sickness. But you're right, after graduation the Houses don't mean all that much, and even in school they're not _that_ definitive. The virtues are definitely _there_ , though, whether because people were Sorted because they already had 'em or because they know the reputation and think they need to _live up_ to them, like-" she adopted a gruff masculine tone, and her chin briefly grew to heroic proportions, "'Well, I'm in Gryffindor, so I'd better fling myself into danger like a complete prat! Charge!'" Hermione laughed, despite herself.

"They're not _all_ like that...some of 'em are even more devoted pranksters than I am, and it _does_ take true bravery to try to get away with anything while McGonagall is hovering over your House... But there can be cleverness in Hufflepuff, and helpfulness in Gryffindor, new Ravenclaws are _constantly_ hatching devious plans to get into the Restricted Section, and hell, I've even seen bravery from Slytherins on occasion." She paused in thought for a moment.

"I think what it comes down to is, you ought to be in a house that'll help you make the _most_ out of Hogwarts. Either surround you with people you can use as good examples for something you _want_ to bring out in yourself, or at least who you'll be able to just _get along with_ for seven years." Hermione nodded. From that perspective, Slytherin didn't sound much better, but Gryffindor seemed a little less attractive than it had - she had a dim view of pranking from her years in school thus far, however Tonks might rationalize it.

"But...it's up to the Sorting Hat, right?" she asked.

"Well, little secret...the Hat can be negotiated with. You can't _fool_ it, as far as I know, but you can maybe _convince_ it, if you have good reasons. My mum had enough trouble after marrying my dad...I didn't want to get in the middle of any pointless rivalries, so I asked the Hat to keep me out of Slytherin _or_ Gryffindor, and Merlin knows I only study in extreme emergencies - like trying to meet the Auror qualifications - so Ravenclaw was out. I made the best of it...Ravens may get better marks, but a 'Puff will _never_ refuse to help if you ask, and I'll take a study group of four patient 'Puffs over one reluctant Raven any day. Not that you couldn't be a _helpful_ Raven if you wanted. In the end, _you_ decide who you want to be, not which dorm some moldy headgear says you have to sleep in." Tonks grinned, and Hermione nodded thoughtfully.

"Anyway, I'm going to give this one up as a bad job and dash. Can I ask you to keep this whole thing under your hat? Not my finest hour, and all..."

"I suppose, if that's what you want. You actually _have_ been very helpful, and it was good to have someone to quiz against without feeling intimidated. Plus, if you've already graduated, it's not as if you _technically_ broke any school rules, I suppose..." Tonks cackled in delight.

"Thanks, I'll owe you one. Be careful of that word, though…"

"Which?"

" _'Technically_ '. Take it from me...once you start down the dark path of rule-dodgery, forever will it dominate your destiny…" she paraphrased, grinning. "Fortunately for me, Moody thinks it can make for better Aurors." Tonks winked, and Disapparated, and Hermione was left alone again with only an inexplicable foreboding for company.

o-o-o

It wasn't long after that other students - _current_ students, this time - started joining Hermione in the compartment. All first years, as older students didn't seem to want to sit with first-years, nor did many first-years apparently have the courage to try to join a compartment with older children. Hermione found herself sharing a compartment with two twin sisters named Padma and Parvati, and a shy blond girl named Hannah.

A woman with cart came by early on selling sweets, and they'd each bought a couple, the others explaining the unfamiliar products to Hermione. While they snacked, they engaged in innocuous small talk which Hermione nevertheless found interesting, as much of it involved nuances of magical society that she hadn't yet picked up from her reading.

Even if Tonks hadn't meant it maliciously, the experience of her prank had made Hermione accept the premise that her study habits _might_ be considered intimidating by some people, so rather than being entirely forthcoming, she'd decided to just wait and see what other people said. After several hours of chit-chat, it somehow hadn't come up, so she decided to try dropping it in herself, casually.

"So, have any of you read much of your school books yet?"

"A little, just to see" said Parvati, at the same time Padma said, "Some." They looked at each other, and Padma shrugged. "I got caught up in the Potions book, it's interesting."

"I thought I ought to wait until a Professor said what to read," said Hannah quietly. All three girls gave her quizzical looks. "Well, you know, some of our books were printed an awfully long time ago...what if the Professors give out corrections? I'd have ended up learning something _wrong_."

"That's...actually quite a good point," said Hermione, sounding surprised. The concept had never even occurred to her - she was used to getting fairly new textbooks from her school - but thinking about some of the publication dates she'd seen, she had to admit it was worth keeping in mind. Even under this mild praise, Hannah seemed to blossom.

"I do already know some herbology, though, my mum's quite good at it," she offered, smiling. "We've a garden at home, and she sells sometimes to the shops in Diagon Alley. What do your folks do?"

"Mum writes a recipes column for the Daily Prophet," said Parvati, "and dad is a curse-breaker for Gringotts," finished Padma. They looked to Hermione.

"Er, my parents are both dentists." Hannah nodded at this, while the twins looked confused. "People muggles go to when their teeth hurt, to fix them, or to help keep them clean," Hermione elaborated. They began to consider this apparently foreign concept, and Hermione noticed Padma was staring openly at her mouth. "There's a different sort that _straighten_ people's teeth," she added with mild chagrin, lowering her face a bit and closing her lips to hide her front teeth.

There was an awkward silence for a moment, which was broken by a knock on the compartment door. Hermione leapt to her feet to open it, eager for a distraction. There was a round-faced boy outside, his cheeks a little wet.

"Excuse me, I've lost my toad...I just wondered if any of you had seen it?" Padma and Hanna wrinkled their noses, though Parvati looked sympathetic. They all shook their heads, however.

"I'm Parvati...what's _your_ name?" Parvati asked gently.

"Oh, Neville. Neville Longbottom."

"When did you see it last?" asked Hermione. She'd wondered about that bit of the Letter that mentioned bringing animals, and had assumed it was like a witch's familiar. But while owls apparently shared a unique affinity with witches and wizards, displaying unusual (by muggle standards) intelligence and an apparently magical ability to navigate, Hermione hadn't read anything that suggested they (or cats, or toads) established any supernatural _connection_ with the wizard that owned them. This seemed to be more evidence of that, otherwise presumably Neville could've used it to help find his pet.

"About an hour ago. I'd lost him earlier in getting settled on the train, but my gran found him for me," he said glumly.

"How'd she do that?" asked Padma.

"She used a Summoning Charm. But I don't know how to do anything yet, I only just got my wand." Hermione had seen references to the Summoning Charm in her reading, but the spell itself wasn't in any of her actual spellbooks. She supposed that meant it wasn't considered a Practical Household Charm, which was odd, as it seemed likely to be quite useful...maybe it was taught to everyone at Hogwarts, but later on than second year, which didn't bode well for trying to work it out themselves even if Neville _did_ remember the incantation.

"Well, there must be plenty of older students on the train," Hermione said reasonably, "Since this is the last compartment, we'll just go back through in the other direction until we can find one who knows the spell." The boy nodded, looking pathetically grateful. She waved to the other girls and set off down the hallway with Neville in tow.

The first compartment she opened held a pair of boys, with messy and red hair respectively. The redhead was brandishing his wand, which made Hermione think it was at least worth asking, though she guessed they were also first-years, based on their size.

"Excuse me, do either of you know how to do a Summoning Charm? Neville's lost his toad," explained Hermione.

"Uh, no," said the redhead. "Think it goes 'achio' or something, mum does it all the time at home."

"All right, thanks. Sorry to interrupt. Were you about to practice a spell?" she asked with some enthusiasm, trying to be polite.

"Yeah…" He cleared his throat elaborately.

"Sunshine, daisies, butter mellow; Turn this stupid, fat rat yellow," he intoned, waving his wand imprecisely at the apparently sleeping - and unwell, if the condition of his fur was any indication - rat on his lap. Nothing happened, which did not surprise Hermione at all.

"You didn't get taught that spell by a girl named Mary Sue by any chance, did you?" she asked tentatively.

"What?" asked the redhead. "No. My brother, George. Probably wrong on purpose, he and Fred think they're Merlin reborn when it comes to pranking," he said, a bit glumly. Hermione narrowed her eyes.

"Are they in Gryffindor?" she asked. The boy nodded. Hermione sniffed sharply, then turned to Neville and said, "Sorry, just one second." She drew her wand, pointed it at the sleeping rat and said, " _Colovaria!_ " The rat's fur obligingly turned bright yellow, and all the boys' mouths dropped open. "Just act perfectly normal," Hermione suggested, "when your brother sees him, he'll be trying to figure out how you got his silly made-up spell to actually work." She nodded in satisfaction, then turned to continue down the hallway. Neville shrugged helplessly, then followed.

"Who was _that?_ ", she heard the other boy ask from behind her as she walked, followed by the voice of the redhead, who said, "No clue, mate, but she's bloody brilliant - George'll go mental!" Hermione felt a _bit_ guilty that what she'd done and suggested _itself_ might count as a prank, but decided that there must be some pranking equivalent to the legal theory of justifiable self-defence, and let the warm glow of the offhanded compliment propel her onwards.

In short order, they managed to find a fifth year who had no problem (after Neville informed him the toad was named Trevor) Summoning him, to Neville's sincere gratitude. Hermione left Neville in his compartment with an admonition to keep a closer eye on Trevor, then made her way back towards her own compartment. Along the way, she had to press herself firmly against one wall to avoid being trampled by a trio of boys who pushed past without even acknowledging her, one of them whinging about probably having been poisoned by a diseased yellow rat. She decided this was probably not a coincidence, so she poked her head into the redhead's compartment.

"What happened?" she asked, observing their sweets had been scattered around a bit. "I was nearly bowled over by some boys running down the corridor - they, uh, seem to think your rat may be diseased." The two boys rolled back into their seats with laughter.

"Bloody perfect," said the redhead, wiping away a tear and lifting the rat up by his tail to examine him. "Seems like he's all right - just sleeping again, if you can believe it. Anyway, what was all that about, sounded like Malfoy'd already met you?" he asked the messy-haired boy. The other boy described a brief but unpleasant interaction with someone Hermione rather _wished_ Tonks'd had the opportunity to 'deflate'.

"Yeah, my dad's told me about that lot. Came running back after You-Know-Who vanished, claimed they were bewitched, but my dad thinks it's bol-" he glanced at Hermione, "er, rubbish. Anyway," he said, turning to Hermione, "that's _two_ I owe you, if Malfoy's mate thinks Scabbers' given him Yellow Fever or some such. I'm Ron Weasley, this here's Harry Potter."

"Hermione Granger," she offered. "And you're welcome." She paused for a moment, then asked Harry, " _The_ Harry Potter?" He nodded, a bit uncomfortably. "Goodness...you're in several of the books I got for extra reading, but it never occurred to me you'd be here at all, much less in my year. I really ought to have done the math."

"I'm...in books?" he asked, somewhat taken aback.

"Yes, but it's all very complimentary," Hermione said, trying to reassure him. She couldn't imagine what _that_ felt like, and thought it a bit odd as well that he seemed not to _know_ about it, since he'd had ten or so years to learn to cope. But then the books really said nothing at all about what had happened to the baby _after_ somehow impossibly saving Britain - and arguably the world - by virtue of being mysteriously invincible. Clearly there was more to his story, but she couldn't think of a casual way to ask, and there wasn't really time anyway. "Anyway, you two ought to change, the train's slowing so we must be quite close. I'll see you at the Sorting," she said, then left to return to her own compartment, closing the door behind her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I had this brilliant plan wherein Hermione would meet seventh-year Tonks, and she'd become her mentor through first year and there'd be hi-jinx aplenty. Halfway through writing, I did my belated due diligence and discovered Tonks graduated the year *before* Hermione started. Awkward, but I'll work that out. In any case, I decided to leave it in as just a cameo, with a little tweaking. Someday (possibly when I get an editor) I'll learn how to throw away something I've written, but for now, you'll have to pry my little fantasies out of my cold, dead hard drive.


	7. Partition Problem

Disembarking from the train was a chaotic bustle of black robes. Fortunately an announcement had advised students to leave their luggage, or it would've been a nightmare. Hermione had wondered how it got to the proper places - particularly given a seventh of the students hadn't been assigned a dorm yet. Hogwarts, a History didn't mention anything about liveried staff...perhaps the conductor who ran the Express - a seasonal occupation if ever there was one - had his own temporary staff who would see to them, or knew some broad charm he could use to send them properly off?

Most of the students were heading towards a long line of carriages, but a voice began calling out for "Firs' years" to follow him, and upon seeing the voice came from an _enormous_ shaggy man carrying a lamp, no first-years felt it prudent to disobey. For all his size, he seemed friendly enough, and apparently knew Harry already, as he called him out by name. Hermione edged her way through the crowd to stand next to the boy, nodding politely to Ron and Neville who were nearby - the latter clutching his toad so tightly its eyes were bulging a bit.

"Who's that?" she asked.

"Oh, that's Hagrid...he's the groundskeeper here, and, uh, something about keys. He's really great!" answered Harry enthusiastically.

"Keeper of Keys", Hermione suggested, nodding.

"You're a _first-year_?" asked Ron, incredulously. "I'd reckoned you were a Prefect and just, er, really short." Hermione laughed at what she interpreted as another offhanded compliment.

"No, I'd have had a badge, wouldn't I? I certainly _hope_ I make Prefect, when the time comes," Hermione said, a bit wistfully. Hagrid was leading them down an alarmingly dark and slippery path. Though he held aloft a large lantern, it wasn't doing much for the students towards the back of the group, so Hermione withdrew her wand.

" _Lumos,_ " she said, holding the tip low so it illuminated the ground some distance around her without disrupting anyone's night vision. It wasn't nearly as much light as Hagrid's enormous lantern, but it helped a little for those nearby. Though the students who noticed seemed more surprised than grateful, and whispers began to circulate.

"So how do you know all these spells already?" persisted Ron. This seemed like an obviously stupid question, but Hermione reminded herself what Hannah had said about her books - there might be other equally good reasons to have not opened a single one, so she tried not to get snippy.

"I practiced on the train. The instructions in the books are fairly clear if you read carefully," she added, modestly.

Ron's expression suggested he didn't think this was a proper explanation, but their conversation was interrupted as the path carried them around a clump of trees. A variety of appreciative noises floated up from the group as the Black Lake and the elaborate castle that was Hogwarts itself came into view for the first time. Hermione had already seen pictures of it, of course, but they'd been somewhat grainy and monochrome - even considering they'd been animated, she had to admit that they hadn't properly prepared her for seeing it in person.

Hagrid directed their attention to the little boats on the shore and instructed them to board, but no more than four to a boat. Hermione looked around for her compartment-mates (since they'd already established a convenient group of four), but she saw another girl she didn't know had already joined them on a boat, and was talking animatedly with Parvati.

She saw Harry, Ron and Neville were sharing a boat - Hermione was worried if they continued their conversation, it would end with one or both of them feeling uncomfortable, but there wasn't much for it. She stepped into the boat with them and tried to look like she was deep in thought, as that might dissuade him.

Of course, the easiest way Hermione knew of looking like she was deep in thought was to actually _be_ deep in thought, so she began to consider the impending Sorting. She already had a good idea what she was going to say (or 'think'?) to the Hat on her own behalf, but she wondered about the other first-years, who might not have had the same advice she'd been given. That led her to consider the Sorting as a _whole_ , and she immediately saw a possible problem.

There were about forty of them, and an even mix of boys and girls. So naively, that would seem to work out, five girls and five boys to each of the four Houses. But what were the odds of everyone's best-suited House working out _evenly_ , like that? It seemed a lot more likely you'd have a little more here, a little less there. Then, if you took preference into account...well, from her reading, Gryffindor tended to get a lot of 'good press', and Slytherin much the opposite...wouldn't you expect there to be a lot more kids who'd rather be in Gryffindor than Slytherin?

The question was, did the Hat make completely objective decisions? Or did it take into account that, from the perspective of the administration, things would be a lot _easier_ if the Houses were divided evenly...what if Gryffindor ran out of beds? Fairer, too, taking House points into consideration...if the populations became too lopsided, there'd be a significant advantage to the 'fuller' houses, wouldn't there? So what would the Hat do if there happened to be, say, seventeen perfect Hufflepuffs in a given year? With each Hufflepuff Sorted, would the Hat make the criteria stricter for subsequent Hufflepuffs and less strict for the others? But then the _order_ in which students were Sorted would make a large difference...those assigned earlier would tend to have a better chance of getting their preference or the best match of House. The school had been running for so long, Hermione assumed they _must_ have figured out a way to make it all work, but she just couldn't see what it was...

By now, they'd made their way to a hidden harbor beneath the castle, and Hagrid had led them up a flight of stairs and into the castle itself, having just handed them off to Professor McGonagall inside the main door. She was wearing the same green robes she'd worn to Diagon Alley, and was looking very stern.

Hermione raised her hand.

McGonagall's expression did not alter, though she might have taken slightly deeper breaths for a moment.

"As we progress, I will be informing everyone of everything they _need_ to know for tonight's itinerary. Everyone please hold your questions for another time?" Hermione reluctantly lowered her hand, and there were titters here and there from other first-years, though they vanished instantly at a sharp look from the Professor.

McGonagall led them through the enormous entrance hall past a large - closed - doorway, beyond which a great many voices could be vaguely heard, and into a small chamber, bereft of comfort or decoration. She welcomed them to the school, then explained - rather briefly, in Hermione's opinion - about the Sorting and the House system. The Professor didn't even give any details on the Houses, though Hermione was pleased to note she at least mentioned that every house had "produced outstanding wizards and witches", but that wasn't _nearly_ enough to undo the reputation of Slytherin, if promoting objectivity had been the intent.

"I shall return when we are ready for you," said McGonagall, pointedly avoiding eye contact with Hermione. "Please wait quietly," she instructed, then spun on her heel and strode out.

The children all looked terrified, and began looking at each other, though only a few ignored the Professor's instructions and whispered urgently. Hermione wasn't afraid, but she _was_ feeling a bit peeved. That _had_ to have been deliberate. But why would she want to frighten everyone just as they were entering the place at which they would be spending more time over the next seven years than their _actual homes_? And she'd been quite quick not to let Hermione ask any questions. Was it...could there be some _benefit_ to the students being almost entirely ignorant of what was going on? She noted that it _hadn't_ been mentioned in Hogwarts, a History, which now seemed an odd omission for something so fundamental to the operation of the school.

Well...if there _was_ a reason to keep it secret, then by her omission, along with what she'd said earlier, Professor McGonagall had _technically_ told Hermione that she did not _need_ to know that reason, had she not? And if that was true, then she must not be concerned about preventing students from telling anything they _did_ know (or possibly, did not expect they knew anything of substance, noted Hermione's responsible side). Hermione itched to follow this line of reasoning to its logical conclusion and start loudly telling everyone everything she knew. But the Professor had been quite explicit about waiting quietly. She decided to compromise.

"It's not that kind of test," Hermione whispered to the students nearby. "The Sorting Hat just decides, based on your qualities and potential, which House best suits you. It apparently takes your preferences into account, though you may need to be fairly stubborn about it. However, the reputations the Houses have aren't entirely fair, and I've read that some people think House rivalries do more harm than good at the school."

Hannah, Harry and Neville looked at her consideringly. The Patil twins were whispering to each other while looking in her direction, and Ron looked unsure.

"What, our lives are in the hands of a ruddy hat?" he said, not whispering as quietly as he might have.

"Not our _lives_ , Ron, just where we _sleep_. Every House can be just as-" She was interrupted by a stubborn rebuttal from the redhead.

"Who could _get_ a proper sleep if they were surrounded by Slyth-" _He_ was interrupted in turn by a scream and several gasps, as a bunch of ghosts having a conversation floated straight through one of the walls. It took a moment for them to realize the room was occupied, and one of the glowing figures asked the first-years what they were doing there.

"Failing to wait quietly?" answered Neville, rather uncertainly, who it appeared wasn't entirely convinced they wouldn't be tested, or weren't being tested _right now_. Parvati put her hands over her mouth to stifle a giggle.

"A gaggle of first-years on starting day, I'd say you're about to be Sorted," said the bald one who looked like Friar Tuck, smiling tolerantly. Hermione saw this as a defensible opportunity - since they were _already_ talking, now - to get some more answers.

"Yes, exactly. Would you have any advice for us on that?" she asked quickly.

"Do we _want_ his advice?" muttered Padma. "He did get _killed_ , after all…"

"Oh, just be yourself," the rotund ghost said merrily. "If you're very lucky, you'll get into Hufflepuff, like I did!" A blond boy on the other side of the group sniggered.

"Doesn't _seem_ very lucky," Padma continued, still under her breath, though Parvati tried to shush her. At this point Professor McGonagall returned and all interesting conversation ceased...events which Hermione was beginning to suspect might be causally correlated, though of course her sample size was still rather small.

"If you _would_?" she said sharply to the ghosts, waving a hand towards the Great Hall. "We're about to begin the Sorting Ceremony." The ghosts wafted off agreeably through another wall, seemingly unruffled by the Professor's snippiness. Hermione supposed being dead for a while might make it harder to get upset by that sort of thing.

McGonagall led them back out the door they'd come in, then into the Great Hall. Hermione wondered about the wisdom of lighting the room by candles floating overhead everywhere, but she supposed if they could make candles ignore gravity, wax drippings should solve themselves. She peered at the closer ones as they passed, trying to see what exactly happened - would they just pool under the wick, or halfway down, or…

Hermione's examinations of the candles were interrupted as Professor McGonagall brought them to a halt, the line stretching out in front of the High Table where the other Professors and Staff were seated, but facing the four other _very_ long tables that held the rest of Hogwarts' students. A twitch of her wand conjured a simple wooden stool, which she placed in front of the center of the line. She then produced a large pointed hat from somewhere - Hermione thought it only a _bit_ odd she hadn't noticed her carrying it before - and set it on the stool. She'd thought Tonks was just being derisive by calling it moldy, but the hat looked filthy and it now seemed quite plausible there was mold or worse hidden in its various folds and patches.

Hermione made a concerted effort not to sigh audibly as the Hat began to _sing._

Not that she had anything _against_ singing, exactly, but the lyrics were a bit irritating. While they at least had more details about the Houses than the Professor had seen fit to provide, they were quite simplistic, and held the exact sort of bias that Hermione had been hoping to counteract with her comments in the waiting room. _I mean,_ _ **honestly**_ , she thought, _'use any means to achieve their ends'? It's essentially saying, 'Any kids I stick in here, watch 'em close, because they're probably already halfway evil.' And it's saying this about_ _ **eleven**_ _-year-olds_. Was it really any wonder if more Slytherins than average became Dark Witches or Wizards, living seven years with _that_ hanging over their heads? The bigger surprise was that _any_ Slytherins managed to graduate well-adjusted, and yet that was something that apparently _did_ happen regularly, according to her books.

As the hat bowed to the House tables - not to the first years, she noted, though the song had clearly been meant for them - Hermione wished there was some way to undo what the hat had done, but speaking out of turn _now_ seemed entirely out of the question. Professor McGonagall stepped forward, unrolling a narrow scroll.

"When your name is called, sit on the stool and put on the hat to be sorted. Abbott, Hannah!" The shy blond girl from Hermione's compartment walked slowly to the stool. She glanced at Hermione, who nodded encouragingly at her, then sat down, putting on the hat, which slumped over her eyes, as it was - somewhat curiously, given its ostensible purpose - not sized for an eleven-year-old.

She sat there for a little over a minute, her mouth slowly turning down into a frown. But after she suddenly stuck her tongue out, the Hat immediately responded with a shout of "GRYFFINDOR!". One of the tables began cheering and applauding, waving her over, and as the girl approached it, a few of the students at the table stuck their tongues out at dramatic angles, as if in salute. Hannah seemed a little embarrassed, but was smiling brilliantly. The girl gave a spirited thumbs-up gesture to Hermione after she'd sat, which made her smile back. It seemed her advice had at least helped _one_ person.

Hermione watched the process closely as each student was called up. The length of time under the hat varied. For most it was quite short, though some took longer, though only one other took as long as Hannah. Finally it was her turn, and she strode confidently to the stool, taking a seat and placing the hat over her head.

 _Don't just yell 'Ravenclaw', please...there are some questions I wanted to ask,_ she thought immediately. From seeing the other students Sorted before her without hearing a word, she'd suspected either some sort of silencing charm, or actual telepathy, and given the hat's _task_ , the latter had seemed more likely.

"So I see," came a voice into her head after a moment, sounding a bit weary. There was a pause, then, "May _I_ ask a question or two first?"

 _Of course,_ Hermione thought, politely.

"What is my proper name?" asked the hat. Hermione was confused by the simplicity (and the reflective nature) of the question, then suspicious. She wasn't sure where it was going with this.

 _I imagine it would be 'the Hogwarts Sorting Hat',_ she thought tentatively, hedging in case other magical schools had their _own_ Sorting Hats.

"You're _sure_?" it asked, a bit coyly.

 _Well, as sure as I **can** be, given there's so little written about you,_ Hermione responded, a bit peevishly. _That was actually part of what-_

"Maybe you just haven't read enough books yet?" it interrupted, almost sounding as if it was _taunting_ her. She mentally dug in her heels and refused to give it the satisfaction of a defensive reaction.

 _I'm sure I haven't,_ she thought, projecting cheerfulness. _There are obviously a lot of them, after all. But I do what I can._

"Ah, that will work out splendidly, then!"

 _How is that?_ she asked, suspicious again.

"Well, since, as you quite correctly answered, I _am_ the Hogwarts _Sorting_ Hat, and not, for example-" the hat's voice took on a particularly playful tone, "the 'Hogwarts _Question-Answering_ Hat', I'll just let you get on with your reading…"

_But-_

"RAVENCLAW!"

Hermione wondered - quite deliberately _before_ removing it - if anyone had ever tried to set the Hat on fire. Sadly, even if it was still reading her mind _after_ it had Sorted her, the implied threat would be spoiled, since it would thereby also know she'd never _actually_ do such a thing.

Probably.

She _had_ entertained the notion deliberately, with carefully imagined visuals of the cheerful orange flames flickering hungrily. Apparently, being 'outsmarted' by an article of clothing had brought out a heretofore unsuspected vindictive streak in Hermione - which she didn't feel particularly proud to discover, and only further increased her irritation.

There was a hesitancy to the applause, and Hermione realized her feelings must be showing on her face, and they thought she was unhappy about being Sorted into Ravenclaw. She tried to focus on the fact that at least she'd been sorted 'appropriately' - for what it was worth - and that she really was looking forward to seeing what Ravenclaw House was like, and was able to smile genuinely by the time she got halfway to the table, taking a seat at the mostly-empty section reserved for the new first-years.

From the moment the Hat went onto Neville's head, even without being able to hear any details, it was clear from his expression that he and the Hat were embroiled in a contentious debate. A minute passed, then two...three...four… The average volume level of the House tables gradually increased as speculation about what was going on spread. One of the older Ravenclaws further down the table declared knowledgably that he'd read in a book called Hats Off that this was called a 'hat-stall', and was very rare. Hermione would've immediately demanded to know where he'd found that book, but McGonagall had begun to aim particularly stern looks at the louder patches of conversation, so she waited.

In the end, Neville folded his arms stubbornly, and as his face began to grow pale and a trifle blue, it was clear he was actually _holding his breath_ , a tactic Hermione had heard children occasionally used but had never witnessed until now. Disapproval was warring with concern on Professor McGonagall's face, but she glanced at the Head Table and the Headmaster gave her a tiny shrug, his genial expression unchanged since the Sorting Ceremony had begun. Neville started to sway, and when it seemed he was about to actually pass out, the Hat relented, with a shout of "HUFFLEPUFF!" The boy released his held breath explosively, then took several great gulps of air, though he half fell off the stool in the process.

There was a brief silence as the House tables digested this. All of that...to get into _Hufflepuff_? But the Hufflepuff students rose almost as one and gave him a standing ovation. Hermione and Hannah joined in, bringing up several other Gryffindors in their wake, while most of the remaining students and Professors only looked amused or dubious. Neville set the Hat back on the stool firmly, then walked to his table, blushing furiously at the applause but looking grimly satisfied, and to Hermione's eye, standing a little straighter than he had before.

Parvati and Padma went to Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw, respectively. This surprised quite a few people, since they were twins, and while many had apparently assumed that like _The_ Twins, they'd go to the same House, Hermione had not been so sure. Partially because she'd read articles about twin studies and the nature vs nurture debate, and knew that was far from a foregone conclusion - but also she'd already noticed that Padma seemed more intellectually-inclined, if only slightly. She supposed that even if they'd started out the same, if Padma somehow got _slightly_ ahead, Parvati might have then started to rely on her sister _slightly_ more for such things than on her own knowledge, and it could have eventually become a self-reinforcing cycle. Though she reminded herself that she did still need to ask some wizard-raised students exactly _how_ they'd been educated up to this point.

When Harry Potter was sent up, speculation amongst the House tables became a bit more open, though a lot of it seemed to be students who had _also_ neglected to do the math and thus hadn't realized the Boy Who Lived would be here this year. Harry walked to the stool slowly, glancing once at Hermione. She tried to give him an encouraging smile, and he seemed only a little nervous. But the Hat remained on his head for quite some time. He was wringing his hands a bit, and towards the end, he shook his head once emphatically.

"GRYFFINDOR!" the Hat shouted, a moment later.

The Gryffindor table went wild with celebration. She supposed it was because he was famous - it'd be like having a movie star come to live with you, or something. Or maybe they thought it linked their House with his defeat of You-Know-Who? Not that she imagined a baby could really be capable of _any_ virtues let alone Gryffindor's particularly, nor how they would help against an extremely powerful wizard. Hermione also wondered what Harry's apparent debate with the Hat had been about...it must've suggested a different House first, but she really hadn't interacted with him enough to have a good model of his personality, so it was hard to guess which it might've been.

The last few students were Sorted - the Hat shouted "GRYFFINDOR!" quite soon after touching Ron's head, and he'd given Hermione a grateful look afterwards, as if only her advice that he could insist on it had allowed him entry - then the Headmaster rose, to say a few words before the food was served.

Which he did.

There was widespread applause and cheering as he sat down, though the applause from the Ravenclaw table seemed polite at best. Many of the first-years looked at each other as if trying to decide how to phrase a question delicately, or if they'd sound stupid for asking.

"Gryffindor," Hermione said with a soft sigh, and the first-years became thoughtful.

"Well, yes, there is that," admitted a nearby older girl. "But he _is_ quite old...my great-grandfather is younger than Dumbledore, and _he_ sometimes wears his underwear on the outside of his robes. But apparently he's been doing this sort of thing for some time. Dumbledore, that is, not my grandfather."

"My dad thinks it's strategy," said another boy, "he's just started acting peculiar early so when he _does_ eventually go senile, no one will be able to tell." Hermione frowned.

"Because he thinks it would be good to maintain his various important positions even after he's _genuinely_ lost his faculties?" she asked, dubiously. Everyone in earshot appeared to give this some consideration, but any resulting concern was interrupted by the sudden appearance of a wide variety of food and drink along the center of the tables, and the hungry students immediately began helping themselves.

"I was under the impression food couldn't be conjured...where did all this come from, exactly?" Hermione asked, curiously.

"The kitchens, of course," said a third-year boy further down the table. "Hogwarts' House Elves do the best cooking I've ever tasted, though don't tell my mum I said so," he continued, breaking his grin to make room for a bit of sausage.

"Sorry if this is obvious, but I'm muggle-born...what's a House Elf?" Hermione asked. Clearly she hadn't picked up enough background reading...she could've _easily_ squeezed in another five books, maybe even _ten_ if she hadn't re-read some of the less interesting material…

"Wonderful wee things," answered Morag MacDougal, another first-year girl who'd been Sorted after Hermione. "They know all kinds of magic for doing things for ye, mending, cleaning, cooking and such. Only the more distinguished families keep one, but Hogwarts has, oh, I don't know, dozens at least. Our House Elf, Geagol, can make these wee roses out of strawberry ice cream that are so lovely ye almost can't bear to eat them!" Hermione tried to estimate the combined salaries of dozens of magically-talented live-in servants, but she hadn't managed to get a good feel for the local economy yet. She wondered how taxation worked, and how interconnected the muggle government and Ministry of Magic's finances were - there'd been no tuition for Hogwarts, so presumably the school itself was paid for by the Ministry? Unless they had some sort of endowment?

"So I guess your family's distinguished, then?" asked Terry Boot. Morag nodded casually.

"Oh aye, pureblood on both sides for generations. Not that I pay much attention to all that," she added airily, despite having made a point of dropping it into conversation.

"Do the Elves have their own schools? It seems like just humans, here," Hermione noted, looking around. Her books had made it clear that there were a number of intelligent species, but strongly implied that the others were not quite as intelligent as humans, and that their cultures were more primitive. Though she'd already read about the Goblin Rebellions, and seeing as how they ran a bank, Hermione suspected their perceived inferiority may have been because they weren't _permitted_ to use wands rather than anything inherent. From Morag's description it seemed clear that Elves were as least as magically talented as humans, but her books hadn't mentioned them at all. Most of the non-muggle-born students in earshot chuckled.

" _Schools?_ " repeated Morag, incredulously. "Merlin, nae...I think they just pass it along tae their children." Hermione tried not to become flustered by the laughter.

"Oh...does their, er, culture not believe in organized education?" she asked.

"They don't have a _culture_ , Hermione," explained Padma, patiently. "All they do is work for whatever House they're bound to." Hermione went still. _'Bound'?_ she thought. _That can't mean what I think it means. Almost everyone I've met seems very nice, they can't be keeping_ _ **slaves**_ _...can they?_ But that was just the part of her that didn't _want_ to believe it was possible...she was well aware from her knowledge of muggle history that most slave-owning societies could seem quite enlightened from the _inside_ , with lots of polite rationalizations about why it was entirely acceptable, or even a _kindness_ to subjugate a certain class or race. She set down her fork, suddenly not very hungry.

The other Ravenclaws didn't seem to notice her distress, or maybe they just assumed she was a light eater, but the conversation moved on to other topics while Hermione tried to decide what to do. She'd have to be careful and do more legal research...for all she knew there were sedition laws or other restrictions on speech or protest. Or maybe she _was_ interpreting things incorrectly, and there was a perfectly reasonable explanation for what only _seemed_ like a horrible ethical scar across magical society.

Eventually, after the food vanished and was replaced by an equally wide assortment of desserts - which Hermione also abstained from - and after a moderate interval those had vanished as well, the Headmaster rose once again. He gave some entirely sensible and not at all insane-sounding notices about not entering the forest (full of dangerous magical creatures), not using magic in the (crowded) corridors, and something about Quidditch trials - a term which Hermione had come across in her reading but only in passing.

Then he gave another one.

A handful of students laughed, but Hermione didn't think it sounded particularly funny. Except the upper-year Ravenclaws were nodding, not as if this was simply a poor joke they were ignoring, but rather as if it was just another typical notice. Then again, maybe it was? Hermione had formed the impression that magic was, in practice, a lot more prone to life-threatening accidents than muggle technology (automobiles notwithstanding)...so she supposed there was no point in couching things in euphemisms if doing so would endanger children.

They then 'sang' the school 'song', and Hermione wondered if there might be not-so-subtle differences in musical sensibility between the muggle and magical cultures. She tried to pick one of the upper-years nearby and follow their tune, but she couldn't really make it out in the cacophony, so she tried to fit her own tune, but the _meter_ of the lyrics kept changing. Halfway through she gave up and sang it to scales as best she could, changing direction on alternating lines.

After the Headmaster dismissed everyone, Robert Hilliard, a dark-haired fifth year, led the first-year Ravenclaws on a winding path through the castle. He advised them that since today was a Sunday and it was an odd-numbered year, Ravenclaw Tower could be reached through taking four right turnings, one left, then two more right on the Grand Staircase. This involved actually back-tracking at one point, but given the movement of the flights of stairs, it all seemed to work out. They followed him up another spiral staircase which wound along the wall of the tower itself, around an empty central shaft. Though there was a handrail, Hermione kept close to the wall, and resolved to practice Arresto Momentum from her Grade 2 spellbook daily. When they'd almost reached the top of the staircase, the Prefect stopped everyone and turned to address them.

"Other Houses have the entrances to their Common Rooms obfuscated in some way. But _Ravenclaw_ 's stands proudly for everyone to see. There is no knob or handle, only a knocker shaped like an eagle - the symbol of our house. Since someone is undoubtedly about to ask - I don't know for certain why it's an eagle and not a raven, but I suspect it is because only animals noted for ferocity were used in heraldry at the time." Several of the first-years lowered their hands.

"While other House entrances are protected by guarded passwords or codes, the guardian of _our_ door will admit any - and only - those deemed worthy, who correctly answer a riddle it poses, which changes each time it is answered correctly. You will wait here while I go ahead of you and enter, then you may follow and attempt the riddle yourselves - and by all means pool your wits. Since it is the first day, there will be a welcoming party going on in the common room...but only for a half-hour or so, so it's in your interest to apply yourselves. If you take too much longer than that - which would be somewhat disappointing - and no one has stayed later in the common room to read - which is technically possible, I suppose - the door next to the statue of Rowena leads to the dormitories. Girls to the left, boys to the right, first-year beds are on the very top floor - you will move down as you advance in year, as you can less afford the distraction of the better views when your classes become more taxing. Any _pertinent_ questions?"

The first-years looked at each other, but no one spoke. Robert made his way up to the door and used the knocker, listened to something inaudible, then thought for a moment. He said something else they couldn't hear, then the door swung open. The boy waved cheerily at the first-years, then entered, closing the door behind him. Everyone made their way up to the door. Fortunately, the knocker was placed low enough that even the shortest first-year could reach it.

"Let's get on with it, then," said Michael Corner, who reached up and rapped the knocker.

"A man left his first son eleven knuts, the second eight knuts, and the third ten knuts. What was the man's profession?" came a gentle, almost musical voice. There was a collection of confused looks.

"What do you call a person who sells canoes?" asked Kevin Entwhistle. "Is there a name for that?"

"I think it actually said k-n-u-t-s knuts, you know, money?" suggested Terry. "It said 'left', like he's dead and it was in his will or something."

"That wouldn't even make any sense," complained Amanda Brocklehurst. "The specific amounts ought to matter somehow...how are that much - or little - money and his profession connected?"

"They sort of are," argued Morag, "if he can only leave his sons so few knuts, his job doesn't pay very well, does it? That narrows it down a little, we can just start guessing along those lines."

"We're meant to _figure it out_ , though, aren't we?" asked Sue Li. "Just guessing seems like cheating."

"Narrowing it down shows we're smart!" insisted Morag. "It'd take ages to guess without that."

" _If_ you're right," warned Anthony Goldstein. "Just because he _did_ leave them that much doesn't mean he _couldn't_ have left them more...maybe he's just being responsible with his money, or he didn't particularly _like_ his sons."

While Hermione listened to the byplay with half an ear, she pondered the riddle. She agreed with Amanda that the amounts were probably important, and possibly the fact that it was money as opposed to other countable objects. There was something about the situation in the riddle that sounded familiar, which was odd as she hadn't even heard of knuts until a few weeks ago...

"Oh!" said Hermione. Everyone looked at her. "I think I've got it, but I'll wait if anyone else wants a chance to figure it out for themselves," she said, trying to be considerate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aside from a few fixed points, I'm trying to write this 'organically', which is to say, by the seat of my pants. But I wasn't sure I was comfortable with how things came out with the Sorting, and I actually ended up writing several different versions, a couple of which were *vastly* different. In more than one, Hermione's conversations with the Hat were *much* longer. In one, she and Harry were sorted into Slytherin. In another, Hermione and *Hannah* were sorted into Slytherin, and Harry and *Draco* were sorted into *Hufflepuff*. I think I could - barely - defend the logic behind any of those scenarios, but the one I stuck with is a less jarring departure from canon and does send the story in mostly the direction I'd wanted. I may have Hermione run into the Hat in Dumbledore's office later, though, some of those conversations were *interesting*.
> 
> Edit 2015-03-16: I finally got around to putting the answer in the text in a later Chapter. If you're dying to know the answer without spoiling yourself by peeking ahead, there are comments on one of the posts in /r/rational for this story that reveal it (though there may be spoilers there as well).


	8. Unexpected

Hermione was eating breakfast at the Ravenclaw table with her new House-mates. When the food had appeared, the Ravenclaw table had been the only one with a full complement of first-years in attendance...apparently some of the other Houses' new students were having some difficulty in finding their way to the Great Hall. Hufflepuff was only missing one - who'd apparently wandered off - the rest having been led there by older students. The young Ravenclaws had been left to work it out on their own, but had all managed. Late first-year Gryffindors and Slytherins were still gradually trickling in, being welcomed to their tables with ribbing and derision, respectively.

As Hermione had discovered after they'd gained entrance to the Ravenclaw welcome party the night before, the large common room held a great many bookcases, comprising a private library of sorts. Many of the books were rare and some were not even found in Hogwarts' main Library itself. One particularly helpful volume - _Engineering Enigmas: An Evaluation of Entry and Egress in an Educational Edifice of Easy Excursion from Edinburgh_ \- had contained a careful accounting of many of the castle's more changeable features, and various tips for navigating confidently. It took a bit of puzzling out, though, as it had been written very obliquely - apparently for some reason the author hadn't wanted to use any names or phrases that would _explicitly_ identify Hogwarts.

The Ravenclaw 'party' itself had consisted chiefly of students oohing and aahing at the books, occasionally waving people over to share an interesting passage, and in general a lot more quiet reading than most people would expect to find at a celebration of any kind. Even the older students were involved, as the Tower Library (as it was called) was apparently updated and expanded with quite a few new books each year, over the summer holiday. Hermione had been pleasantly surprised, and had headed up to her bed only _slightly_ later than her habitual bedtime, leaving plenty of other Ravenclaws still absorbed in the books.

She had risen early, not just because it was the prudent thing to do on her first day of classes - which it was - but also so that she might have extra time to visit the kitchens on her way to breakfast. She had not forgotten the disturbing things she'd heard the previous night, and had used what she'd read in _Engineering Enigmas_ to gain access to the only place she was certain she'd find some house-elves, where she might get some first-hand information. After _that_ meeting, she wasn't at all sure what to think. She'd been appalled, of course, that they were dressed only in tea-towels, and they'd confirmed that they were not paid in any way. But every one of them had stridently, indeed _vehemently_ insisted that they were deliriously happy to be working at Hogwarts where there was so _much_ to do and they were very _rarely_ beaten, and had seemed quite scandalized by many of Hermione's questions. In the end, she'd decided to put the matter off until she could talk to Professor Flitwick about it. While he _was_ in the Great Hall for breakfast, it seemed impolite to interrupt his meal for what might be a long conversation, and since she had Charms first thing, waiting until after class didn't seem like _too_ much of a compromise in the face of injustice.

Plus, she had to eat _something_ if she wanted to concentrate well in her morning classes, and the eggs _were_ delicious…

"So...this is the new competition?" The voice had come from behind her right shoulder, then after the pause, switched to her left. Hermione turned, and saw two identical grinning boys with bright red hair standing behind her, their arms folded over their chests. She recognized them as Gryffindors from the sorting, the first ones who'd stuck their tongues out for Hannah. Probably third or fourth years, by their height. Their grins didn't seem malicious, but she wasn't sure they seemed entirely _friendly_ either. "We just wanted to compliment you on your turnabout with Scabbers," said one. "Not that it took us all that long to figure it out - Ron's rubbish at most things, including looking innocent," continued the other. From this, and the hair, it wasn't hard for her to guess that they were Ron's older brothers.

"It wasn't meant to impress you," Hermione said, primly. "I just thought you might think better of tormenting your brother if you had a taste of it yourselves."

"A _taste_? We've older brothers as well, you know...we've had a _banquet_ ," said one of the Twins with a scoff. "And does this mean you _weren't_ challenging us to a prank war?" asked the other, teasingly. The nearby Ravenclaws glanced at each other, listening, and Hermione looked horrified.

"A 'prank war'? Of _course_ not...that sounds rather juvenile, and likely a horrible distraction from our studies," she said, unconsciously doing a passable McGonagall impression, albeit without her accent. The Twins looked at each other, then shrugged back at Hermione.

"Huh. I suppose we'll have to try to call off all the things we've already set up now," mused one. "Of course, we don't want to be _distracted_ from our studies, so we might not have time to get to _all_ of them between classes…" said the other, his seemingly contrite tone spoiled by a broad grin. Hermione's eyes widened in alarm. "And you know, since you turned him yellow for _noble reasons_ , that just makes Ron's fit about it even _funnier_."

"What?" Hermione asked, confused. Ron had seemed _happy_ about it at the time…

"Oh, you didn't hear? Well, that new Slytherin goon that Scabbers bit apparently made a fuss about catching something from him - with the yellow, he _does_ look even more sickly than usual. So the rat - Scabbers, that is-" they grinned at the unnecessary clarification, "is in a cage down in the hospital wing until Madam Pomfrey can make _sure_ he's not actually as diseased as he looks. Even if he checks out, first-years aren't really _supposed_ to have a rat. Dad had wrangled an exception for Scabbers ages ago, but since he's gone after someone, they might actually revoke it. Ron's pretending not to care, but he's taking it a bit hard. Anyway, good luck..." The two strolled jauntily out of the Great Hall.

Hermione sighed. She really ought to have restrained herself on the train...this was what came of stooping to someone else's level. She'd have to apologize to Ron during Charms, though his brothers had a point about first-years only being allowed owls, cats or toads...exceptions to rules made Hermione instinctively purse her lips in disapproval. She began to wonder why she hadn't noticed that at the time.

"You're dragon bait," commented Marcus Belby, a nearby second-year. "It's not as if those two need an _excuse_ for mayhem, but if you've gone and challenged them to a Prank War…"

"I have _not_ ," insisted Hermione. "Weren't you listening?"

"Well, maybe you hadn't _intended_ to…" he shrugged.

"What did you do, anyway?" asked Terry. Hermione explained, as briefly as possible. The first-years stared at her and a few of the older students glanced in her direction as well.

"You were already casting spells on the _train_?"

o-o-o

Ravenclaw shared Charms class with Gryffindor, and Professor Flitwick made a fuss over Harry Potter during roll call. This embarrassed Hermione slightly on the Professor's behalf - he'd been at the Sorting, so it's not as if he could really be surprised _now_. She supposed that, taken in context, it wasn't _all_ that unreasonable to have an emotional reaction to having the Boy Who Lived in your class, but still.

The tiny Professor gave an overview of all the things they'd be learning to do this term, and demonstrated by making someone's quill leap out of their hand and fly around the room, which everyone found quite impressive. As well as a bit disappointing, since he then had them start practising the simple Wand-Lighting Charm instead. Only it apparently _wasn't_ simple, since only a couple Ravenclaws managed it on the first try - not counting Hermione, of course, for whom it wasn't actually the first try anyway.

Flitwick was very much as she'd found him on his visit to her house. Affable, enthusiastic, talented and clever. It made perfect sense that he was Head of House for Ravenclaw, though when Hermione overheard other students mentioning that he was a past duelling champion, she found it hard to credit, despite her respect for the Professor. It was just hard to _picture_ , though to be fair, she had not yet learned much about duelling. Maybe his size would actually be an advantage, since he was a smaller target and all?

As everyone continued struggling to light and unlight their wands, Hermione quietly gave advice to nearby people she saw having particular trouble. She discovered Tonks was correct - the Professor did in fact give her points for helping, though not everyone she aided seemed grateful to be told what they were doing wrong, which baffled her. Weren't they here to learn? And wouldn't they rather hear it quietly from her than be embarrassed if the Professor pointed it out in front of everyone? Nevertheless, she persisted, and gradually made her way closer to Ron and Harry. The former had in fact been casting frequent sullen glances in her direction throughout the class.

"I'm sorry about your rat," Hermione said, awkwardly. Ron shrugged.

"Probably _is_ diseased, and all he does is sleep anyway, useless lump...good riddance," he replied, a bit unconvincingly. And uncharitably...the rat _had_ leapt - literally - to Ron's defence, or at least to the defence of his sweets.

"Still, I never meant for anything like this to happen...I should've been more responsible," Hermione said, sounding genuinely regretful. Ron looked at her oddly.

"Naw, it was brilliant, really. And _he_ was the one that bit Goyle, not you...just one of those things," he said.

"Still, I feel like I'm partially to blame," Hermione insisted. "If they _do_ end up not letting you keep him, I'll get you a replacement pet...one from the actual list." Ron had no response to this other than to look embarrassed.

"How's Ravenclaw?" asked Harry, trying to break the awkward silence.

"Oh, goodness, it's lovely so far," Hermione said, and described the books in the common room. Possibly in more detail than was warranted, but they _were_ quite an interesting collection, and she hadn't even gone over the titles of all of them yet.

"I noticed your Sorting took a while," she said casually to Harry, after she'd finished. It wasn't prying if she didn't ask outright, right?

"Yeah, it wasn't sure what to do with me...said Slytherin could 'make me great' or some such," he replied with a shrug. A few nearby Gryffindors looked surprised.

"Go on, really?" asked Ron, gaping at him.

"Yeah. I gave it some thought, since Hermione'd said the Houses weren't _entirely_ like how they sounded, but there was no way I was going to share a dorm for seven years with _Malfoy_ , so at the end I just insisted," he said with a shrug. Ron nodded his emphatic agreement with this sentiment.

"Well, just because you didn't go that way doesn't mean you can't be great...just think about what you might've learned from being Slytherin, and try to develop that on your own," Hermione suggested. Ron made a scoffing noise.

"Pfeh...all they'd've taught you is how to be a slimy git, not very great if you ask _me_ …", he said, but Harry nodded thoughtfully.

After class was dismissed, Hermione had lingered to ask Professor Flitwitck about the house-elves. He'd first confirmed that there wasn't anything it was outright _illegal_ to simply discuss - aside from matters covered by Secrecy Statute, with respect to muggles - but there were quite a few things that might be considered inappropriate for first-years. But he'd answered her actual question readily enough, basically echoing what the house-elves themselves had said. It was uniformly their greatest desire to provide good service and unflagging loyalty - the magical contracts which bound them to the house they served were entirely voluntary, and enforced via their _own_ magic. He didn't know how these arrangements had come to be common - he dimly recalled reading that once, millennia ago, house-elves had been independent and wandered, though even then they had often performed the same sorts of services they did now.

Hermione wasn't _happy_ about this, but given it was voluntary, there wasn't much to do about it, as long as they weren't being tricked into it somehow. The best she could think of right now would be to try to make sure the local house-elves were informed that they had options, and obviously to do some research on how they'd come to the current arrangements. She duly added it to the list of things she wanted to look into.

o-o-o

Herbology was pleasant enough, and Hermione thought it'd be an interesting class, since there were plenty of hands-on experiences they'd be provided beyond what was in the book. All they really did the first class, though, was to do roll call and then take a tour of the greenhouses and school grounds, with professor Sprout pointing out every interesting plant within sight. The Professor was not quite as ebullient as Flitwick, though she had a determined cheerfulness that befitted her other position as Head of Hufflepuff, and her enthusiasm for Herbology seemed easily equal to that of his for Charms.

After that was lunch. The Weasley Twins grinned at Hermione when she came in, but there'd been no sign of any pranking yet. She had decided to ignore them, of course. If there _was_ a prank, she'd just have to deal with it as it happened, but it had occurred to her that they might be pulling a _meta_ -prank - trying to make her paranoid when there actually _were_ no threats - so her best defence there as well was to simply act normally.

The class groupings changed in the afternoon, and Hermione's next two classes were with Slytherin. First came Defence Against the Dark Arts. Though it became immediately clear that the class was poorly named, or ought to have been two different classes - there seemed to be a distinct division between defending oneself from dangerous creatures and defending oneself from actual Dark Arts, as the former did not generally _use_ the latter. Hermione wondered if they'd just been lumped together under the common ground of 'bad things', or if it had been done to pad out the curriculum in the earlier years - based on her own reading, a child had little realistic chance of defending themselves against an adult wizard in general, let alone one inclined to use the Dark Arts, whereas driving off minor pests wasn't all that hard even for a beginner, and sometimes didn't even require _magic_. Regardless of her doubts, she paid proper attention...a class was a class, after all.

At the same time, she also paid some attention to the Slytherin first-years sharing the class with the Ravenclaws, hoping to see some evidence for her theories about them not necessarily being all that bad. She got a chance when at one point in the class, Professor Quirrell had asked if anyone knew anything about Hags. Hermione had waited, but after only one person had raised their hand (to mention they ate babies), she raised her own, and when called upon gave a brief (she'd thought) but thorough overview of the topic, then sat down.

"Got one in the family, have you?" asked Malfoy. There was scattered laughter - all of the Slytherins joined in, and even a couple of Ravenclaws, though those got disapproving looks from their fellows. Hermione felt warmth in her cheeks, though she forced herself to meet people's eyes, the Slytherins' particularly. Some of the laughter, she decided, was just at the inappropriateness of the question, but a little more than half of the Slytherins did seem to be taking malicious pleasure in the implied insult. It was much the same as she'd endured for years in her muggle school, and it felt just as bad.

Though curiously, her embarrassment was receding a little more quickly than it used to, and the laughter hadn't lasted as long. Maybe it was her open question about the Slytherins...having something to _analyse_ instead of just feeling embarrassed, was letting her brush it off more easily? Or the fact that she was in a House meant that she now had _implied_ friends, and wasn't quite as vulnerable a target? In any case, she took special note of which Slytherins had (Malfoy and his 'goons', plus Millicent, Pansy and Sophia) and hadn't (Theodore, Blaise, Tracey and Daphne) seemed to delight in the cruelty itself, to see if that pattern held later.

Professor Quirrell didn't intervene at all. He appeared not at all sure of himself, though his rather untraditional (even among wizards) choice in headwear seemed to speak to at least _some_ kind of self-confidence. But he had a stammer, and jumped at loud noises. Nearby students whispered that they'd heard he used to teach Muggle Studies, but he'd gone abroad somewhere to get hands-on experience for this new position, and only barely escaped with his life - the classroom smelled strongly of garlic, which he'd apologized for and explained was 'a regrettable necessity'. Despite his timidity, class discipline didn't break down entirely, since everything was so new to the first-years, and they were genuinely interested in the discussion.

o-o-o

Transfiguration would be the last class of the day for first-years, and before she'd even taken roll call, Professor McGonagall firmly set the tone for her classes.

"Transfiguration is the most dangerous form of magic you will be taught about at Hogwarts, with only the _possible_ exception of Dark Arts. Can anyone tell me why?" She looked quite serious, in a way that few teachers who Hermione had encountered previously had managed. "Miss Davis?" she said, acknowledging the Slytherin girl who had raised a hand.

"Well, Charms can _do things_ to you, and Dark Arts can hurt you or kill you in lots of ways, but Transfiguration can really _mess you up_ ," she said, and she sounded like the idea was more interesting than concerning.

"That is part of the answer, yes...many mishaps in Transfiguration can be fatal in extremely unpleasant ways, or indeed so unpleasant in general that death would be _preferable_." The class absorbed this sombrely, trying to (or not to, depending on their constitution) imagine Transfigurations that would make someone wish they were dead. "Any ideas as to the other part?" Hermione thought she saw where the Professor was going with this, and raised her hand. "Miss Granger?"

"Well, most Transfigurations aren't permanent. They're tricky to undo since you have to know exactly what was done and do it in reverse, but if you just wait, eventually they'll revert. However, um-" she hesitated for a moment, trying to think how to describe the concept, " _interactive_ changes persist. That is to say, if you turn a rock into a stick, and break the stick, when the Transfiguration wears off, you'll have a broken rock. Or if you transfigure water to acid, and spill it on your hand, the acid would later turn back to water, but your hand would still be burned, and I suppose maybe some of the water would be changed because of how the acid reacted with your hand, though that'd depend on-"

"That is sufficient, Miss Granger," interrupted Professor McGonagall, nodding, "but you are mostly correct. The effects of most Charms and even Potions can generally - so long as they are not fatal - be reversed by cancelling the magic involved directly, or as you noted, simply waiting...though depending on the strength and skill of the caster, you may have a considerable wait. However, a _flawed_ transfiguration - particularly of living subjects - _can_ become effectively permanent, if too much time passes. Additionally, again as Miss Granger noted, changes other than the Transfiguration itself _do_ persist indefinitely, so care must be taken when Transfiguring anything into fragile or otherwise volatile forms."

"However, even more importantly, and with greater relevance to first years - since it will be some time until any of you could manage even a flawed Human Transfiguration - even a simple mistake in _basic_ Transfiguration can result in a form or substance which has _unknown qualities_ , the _secondary_ effects of which _are permanent_ , unless they can be repaired in other ways!" A sea of confused looks greeted this declaration, though many of the Ravenclaws seemed to be trying to puzzle it out.

"An example," the Professor continued, accustomed to this reaction. "A fellow student during my own time attending Hogwarts attempted to - outside of class - Transfigure a pair of rocks into earrings for herself, that glowed with blue light. Some of you might be concerned about what happened to her earlobes when the Transfiguration wore off-" several female students winced, "but Untransfiguration is _accommodating_. That is to say, a Transfiguration itself, when properly reverted, will generally not cause harm or changes to _other_ things as a result. So in that sense, her attempt _seemed_ both innocent and successful. It was _not._ " The Professor paused for effect. "The next day, most of her hair had fallen out. The day after that, she fell deathly ill. It was clear she'd been cursed or poisoned somehow, but even after it was known to be the result of proximity to a flawed Transfiguration, no remedy attempted could halt the progress of her condition. A boy she'd...spent some time with grew similarly ill. She died after lingering quite painfully for another two days, though the boy eventually recovered. _To this day_ , we still do not understand precisely what happened." She let this sink in, then leaned forward, and her voice gained intensity.

"I have been instructing Transfiguration for over three decades. No student has ever died during one of my classes, or as a result of misuse of Transfiguration outside of classes. But there _have-been-close-calls._ " The class was silent, and entirely cowed. "Accordingly, you will pay complete attention in my class at all times to what you are doing. You will follow any instructions I give in my class _immediately_. If at _any_ time your behaviour _in or out_ of class causes me to feel that you are not giving Transfiguration the proper respect and are thereby endangering yourself and your classmates, that will mark the _end_ of your Transfiguration classes at Hogwarts. Additionally, in that event, a Permanent Injunction Charm against even _attempting_ to use the true Transfiguration Spell would be cast upon you by a Ministry official and not lifted until such time as you or your parents presented good evidence at a Ministry hearing that you had matured sufficiently to try again, _and_ you had found a Ministry-approved private tutor - as you would be unlikely to rejoin _my_ classes in any case. You would of course be expelled from Hogwarts in the interim, since until your sixth year, Transfiguration is a required core subject. I trust I have made myself clear?" There were a couple of yesses, but mostly frightened nodding.

"Now that the introductions are covered, I will call roll - when I call your name, please respond by restating your own name, followed by, 'I understand and agree to the conditions as stated'." She tapped the board at the front of the class and that phrase suddenly appeared in large yellow letters, then picked up a scroll from her desk and began reading names.

Needless to say, her instructions were followed. Hermione, who had read every word of every EULA for every program she'd installed on the Amiga or the IBM-compatible at home (and in fact cancelled the installation of a handful as a result), and who had developed a vaguely sceptical view of the quality of the Muggle Studies curriculum at Hogwarts based on her background reading, hastily reassessed the latter opinion.

"Now that's over with," she said with a sudden smile, once everyone's name had been called, "and lest you expect your next five years in Transfiguration - or more, if you apply yourselves - to be spent in mortal terror…" She tapped her wand on her desk, and with an eye-watering twist it became a large pig, which stood there docilely, only shifting slightly. The students leaned forward eagerly, and a few made quiet exclamations. "At the risk of immodesty, true Transfiguration is the _pinnacle_ of the magical arts. No other discipline requires the same combination of knowledge, concentration and precision, nor allows for as much creativity in practice and immediate flexibility in application." The Professor paused a moment, then tapped the pig and her desk returned.

She chose to capitalize on the enthusiasm this demonstration had generated by launching immediately into a lecture on the basics of Transfiguration, insisting that everyone take careful notes. Though Hermione had already read all of this, she took notes just as carefully, due - aside from her natural inclinations - both to Professor McGonagall's warnings of the dangers as well as Hannah's insight that their books might not be current, or even complete. Some of the notes were on the differences between Transfiguration Charms, which were very numerous and quite specialized, and the true Transfiguration _Spell_ , which was easy to cast - the incantation was " _Mutato_ ", and there was no required wand motion - and which could theoretically do _anything_ involving Transformation, but which was _very difficult_ to get to do exactly what you wanted. Most of the notes were specifics on how to approach the latter.

The Professor finally passed out matchsticks to everyone, and explained that their first project was changing them into needles with true Transfiguration. Many students immediately began their attempts, with predictable utter failure. Hermione followed her notes and the reading, which said the first step was to identify and keep a firm mental image of as many points of comparison as possible between the target and the destination, and only _then_ cast the spell, aiming to eliminate all the divergences. After a couple of minutes, she had the obvious list, as did most of the Ravenclaws, who began their own attempts. But it seemed clear from the reading that, since they were so inexperienced with the proper concentration and had little 'magical strength' to speak of, their success _today_ would depend much more on their mental pictures. So Hermione continued on, making estimates from memory of the chemical structure and composition of wood versus steel, and even of carbon, hydrogen and oxygen versus iron, filling several parchments with relevant calculations and diagrams.

She got so involved in this that, by the time the class was nearly over and Professor McGonagall was coming around to collect matchsticks - which were largely unchanged except for those of a couple of Ravenclaws who'd managed to make them slightly more pointy - Hermione hadn't started a single attempt. She hadn't even taken her wand out.

"Miss Granger, practice and practical application is _essential_ to your understanding of Transfiguration. I am aware that my introductory speech can be intimidating to some students - as it is _meant_ to be - but please at least _attempt_ the assignment in future classes?" The Professor sounded a bit disappointed, and to hear disappointment in a _teacher's_ voice struck at Hermione's heart like a poisoned dagger.

"Oh, goodness, no! I just wanted to write down as many points of comparison as possible before I started. I thought that would make it quicker in the long run, since the eventual Transfiguration would be easier..." she explained, anxiously.

"I might have commended you for that preparation, if you'd actually done it, but I cannot help but note that your parchment is blank," McGonagall noted, her lips pursed. Hermione looked down at the parchment, which had been covered in calculations of atomic weights only a moment ago. It _was_ blank. She flipped back to the other parchments she'd used for comparison and her initial Transfiguration notes, and they, too, were blank. She didn't understand. Had she mistaken a regular quill for the Self-Inking one she'd bought? But no, she'd _seen_ the writing on the pages, obviously. In her concentration, had she _imagined_ writing all those notes? That seemed very unlikely, and besides, she took parchment from her bag one scroll at a time only as needed, thus there wouldn't be several out now if she'd never really written at all.

A sudden noise distracted her from her panic, and she looked to her right to see that Terry Boot had knocked over his bag. When he bent down to right it, he looked up at Hermione and mouthed silently, _dragon bait_. She stared at him for a moment, then looked at her quill, frowning darkly.

"I think my self-inking quill...or maybe the parchment...may have been jinxed," Hermione said, in a tone sufficiently grim for one discussing a horrific murder. Professor McGonagall looked unimpressed.

"Traditionally students wait until _after_ their first homework is due to trot out that old gem," she said dryly. "I suspect this establishes a new record." Hermione gaped at her in horror, and several students - all Slytherins - snickered, earning them a stern glance from McGonagall. She didn't _believe_ her! Not only had she lost all her notes and not even tried to Transfigure anything, the Professor thought she was just making _excuses_. Her mind began to cast frantically around for some argument that would convince the Professor - the Twins were in her House, surely she'd know of their proclivities - but Hermione feared everything she could say would only sound like another excuse. Suddenly she realized there was only one way she might _prove_ she'd actually been paying attention and doing the work, despite all evidence to the contrary.

Hermione pulled her wand from her bag, and before the Professor could say anything, touched it to her matchstick, focused desperately on all of the comparisons she'd done, and said, _"Mutato!"_ Within seconds, the matchstick had become thinner, silver, and pointed.

"Stop!" said the Professor, her eyes widening in mild alarm. Hermione wanted to keep going, it just needed to have the eye added, surely only a couple more seconds would-

_...follow any instructions I give in my class_ _**immediately** _ _..._

Hermione's mental justifications cut off sharply as she remembered the Professor's rules. Her fingers sprang open as if her wand had become red-hot, and it clattered onto her desk, the not-quite-a-needle remaining incomplete. For a moment, the room was quiet, students cautiously standing and or craning their necks to see what Hermione had done to produce such a reaction, Hermione looking up at Professor McGonagall with worry that she'd made a mistake somehow, and the Professor looking back at her with an unreadable expression. McGonagall shook her head gently and cleared her throat.

"My apologies, Miss Granger," she said, sincerely. "See me after class and I shall examine your supplies for tampering." She gave Hermione a soft smile, then collected her quasi-needle and the rest of the students' matchsticks.

After the class was dismissed, a handful of students immediately surrounded Hermione, asking how she'd managed her Transfiguration. After several patient assurances that she'd explain later, she managed to extricate herself and approach the Professor's desk.

"Let me see your parchment first, Miss Granger," McGonagall asked. "Most commercially-enchanted items - Self-Inking Quills included - are strongly charmed against tampering." Hermione handed the curls of parchment to McGonagall, who began waving her wand over them. On a sudden suspicion, Hermione also searched in her bag for the notes she'd taken in her earlier classes, and found they were blank as well. She closed her eyes, trying to hold back the tears of frustration she felt coming.

Laughing at her, calling her names, messing with her clothes, slipping nasty notes into her bag - she'd regularly endured all of them before coming to Hogwarts. And they'd made her feel small and weak, partly in the natural way, but also because she _knew_ they were _intended_ to do that, and that if she'd only been...better, somehow, they wouldn't have been able to. But interfering with her _studies_? That was a new low, it was just...just… Hermione couldn't think of a word - at least, not in the subset of appropriate words she _allowed_ herself to think - that was sufficiently bad to describe it.

"There are lingering traces, but nothing amiss here," McGonagall said. "I'll have to examine the quill after all." Hermione took her parchment back and handed the quill over, wordlessly. "There was something else I wanted to discuss," she continued, as she began examining the quill. "Could you explain the mental images you used when Transfiguring the matchstick?" She sounded casual, and it appeared most of her attention was on the quill, but there was a note in her voice that suggested more than idle curiosity.

Hermione pushed her feelings down for the moment and explained everything she'd thought of. She did not define the scientific concepts involved, assuming that McGonagall _had_ to be familiar with such things already, teaching Transfiguration as she did. But during the entire part where Hermione was describing alloys and lignin and atomic mass ratios, she could not miss the Professor's slight frown. McGonagall put the quill down and looked up at Hermione, folding her hands on her desk.

"Did you practice Transfiguration at all before today?" she asked, calmly. Hermione shook her head.

"No, I obviously couldn't do anything at home because of the law, and I only practised some basic Charms on the train - the book was quite clear about how dangerous Transfiguration can be, though it wasn't quite as _forceful_ as your speech…" The Professor nodded, as if she'd expected this answer.

"No child with no practice whatsoever - indeed no first-year in _general_ , in point of fact - should have been able to perform that Transfiguration so quickly. I must assume, then, that your advantage lies in the muggle 'sciences', of which I understand very little." She paused for a moment, choosing her words, and Hermione shifted uncomfortably. She wasn't used to teachers who admitted ignorance of any kind, and while the words had seemingly been complimentary, they hadn't _sounded_ like praise.

"I am hesitant to forbid you a talent based on obvious _study_...you presumably _earned_ what...knowledge...the muggles have given you. However, I must warn you - the student in the example I gave, Moira Leigh-Smith? She seemed to have a natural talent for Transfiguration, and was highly praised by...the Professor at the time," she said, a bit awkwardly.

"He had a soft spot for muggles, you see, and she was a muggle-born as well - I believe her mother was a 'doctor', as your parents are?" Hermione nodded, and didn't bother to correct the minor detail, too curious to know where the Professor was going with this. "I'd simply ask that before you attempt any Transfiguration involving muggle science, you consult with me first. Not that I am suggesting you are _irresponsible_...just that...I would be remiss if I did not consider the parallel."

Hermione nodded, slowly. She might have resented the unique restriction, except that she'd just had an inkling of what might have happened to Moira and her boyfriend, in light of which McGonagall's caution seemed entirely justified. She really ought to have thought of it immediately, maybe she even _had_ on some level but had discarded it, because it was brilliant and yet very stupid - though that depended partially on how long ago it had happened, exactly - and all for what... _glowing earrings_? Not that watch dials were a particularly more worthy goal...

"I will, of course. Although if you don't understand muggle science, I'm not sure how...er...consulting with you will help? If it's any consolation, I think I might understand that student's mistake…" The Professor frowned, and Hermione began to worry that McGonagall might've taken her question as an insult. But after a moment, she nodded.

"I pride myself on my knowledge of Transfiguration, and if muggle science can have such significant effects on it, it behoves me to correct that obvious deficiency. My impressions of you suggest that you will have such notions frequently, and it would be safer if they were _not_ discussed in front of the class. Accordingly, we can arrange special tutoring sessions in the evenings or on weekends when you can discuss your ideas with me...while at the same time, you can do your best to teach me muggle science." Hermione nodded along until the Professor reached the last part.

"I...um. I _did_ bring some of my books from home, which will help...but that might take...quite a while," Hermione hedged.

"We do have seven years...I suppose we shall just have to be patient with each other. The Hat _did_ offer me Ravenclaw, if it's any consolation," she added, wryly, echoing Hermione's own words.

"Now that's settled, back to the matter of your notes. I believe this quill-" she nodded at the quill on her desk, "is not one you had originally purchased. It _is_ a Self-Inking Quill, but the ink it produces is Disillusioning Ink, a change that could likely be produced only during the original charming of the item." Hermione's heart fell. She'd been so distracted by the other conversation, she'd actually forgotten about her notes for a couple minutes. "Presumably it was switched for your original quill at some point - do you have any idea who might've done so?"

She had a very _good_ idea, but she hesitated to immediately name the Weasley Twins. For one, informing on students in her old school had for some reason _never_ resulted in a punishment to the offender as unpleasant as the offence itself, and had frequently led to even greater taunts later. Things _might_ be different here, but there was also the other matter - she had no _proof_ it was them. Hermione reminded herself to add 'forensic spells' to her list of things to look into.

"In any case, as _wholly inappropriate_ as it was, I do not think it was meant maliciously," continued McGonagall after Hermione had remained silent for a moment. "Disillusionment is easily reversed - which I will do for you now - but this particular ink could likely only have remained hidden for a day at the most, and would have reverted naturally of its own accord." Hermione felt a ridiculous surge of relief that she hadn't lost all her notes. Of course, she'd _written_ them, so she remembered nearly every word anyway, but it would've taken a _long_ time to re-copy them, which could now be spent more productively. For a moment, she felt a strange sort of gratitude, until she remembered whoever'd done this _had_ deliberately made her feel awful in the first place, and got a bit conflicted.

"Thank you, Professor." she said, opting to focus her gratitude on Professor McGonagall, who genuinely deserved it. "For fixing the Disillusionment, but also for...apologizing," Hermione added. The Professor smiled ruefully.

"You are welcome. But if I did _not_ set an example for my students of both honesty and graciousness, I would be hard-pressed to consider myself an educator of any worth." Hermione beamed at her, and noted to herself that there were apparently a few things that made Hogwarts special that had nothing at all to do with magic.

o-o-o

Transfiguration had been Hermione's last class for the day. This meant she was free until dinner, so she took the opportunity to finally visit the Library. If she was honest with herself, it was actually a bit…disappointing. After the rest of Hogwarts, she'd _expected_ it to be amazing, wonderful, and awe-inspiring. Instead, it was cramped, disorganized and downright inhospitable.

To be fair, based on her rough estimates (and Hogwarts, a History), it _did_ have tens of thousands of books - obviously mostly about _magic_ , which had to count for something. But Hermione had frequently visited the London Library, which held over a _million_ books, and while she had not yet qualified for a Reader Pass at the British Library, she knew that it stored 150 times as many items in turn. She supposed that the magical population was so low that they simply didn't publish all that many books each year.

But Hermione reminded herself that the value of a library was not in its size, but in what it could _teach_ you. There was no point in complaining about it until she ran out of things to learn, which she suspected would take quite a while. Particularly given the labyrinthine collection of bookshelves, scattered throughout an assortment of randomly-sized rooms on the third floor, with no hint of even an old-style card catalogue. She hoped that the librarian could help her, though she'd heard vague reports from other Ravenclaws that she was rather...intense.

"Excuse me, Madam Pince?", she asked quietly, once she found the thin woman's desk. "I was wondering if you-" The librarian shushed her noisily. The noise was actually louder than Hermione's question had been, but she dutifully lowered her voice to a barely-audible whisper. She made it a rule to humour librarians, though she'd never _actually_ met one who fit the stereotypes quite so well before today. "Sorry. I was wondering if you could help me research a few-"

"I don't have time to help students with homework, nor should you expect such help," she interrupted, sternly.

"Oh, well it's not actually for classes, it's just a few-"

"I _certainly_ do not have time to help with personal projects." Interrupting seemed to be the woman's natural mode of conversation.

"Oh. Well, I'm muggle-born...what is it that librarians-"

"Librarians are guardians of the Library, and the books within, of course. I ensure that these rooms maintain a suitable atmosphere for serious study and research, that no harm comes to the volumes, and that they are only borrowed - _and returned_ \- by _responsible_ students."

"So if a student needed to _find_ a particular-"

"She would consult a professor, or other students, and not take up the librarian's _valuable time_." Hermione gave up at this point, and took Madam Pince's 'advice', seeking out an older Ravenclaw.

"You got a lot further with her than most people do," said a third-year, Roger Davies, after Hermione had - quietly - explained her difficulties to him. "She must like you." Hermione took a moment to digest this.

"So, how _do_ you find particular books around here?" she asked.

"Well, the bookshelves are grouped into Sections of course, but beyond that it's a matter of practice, memory, and diligence. Madam Pince _does_ go to considerable lengths to ensure the books are always replaced in the _exact_ location they came from, so at least you can rely on that. Though if there's some pattern to it, she's never told anyone, and no one's ever figured one out." Hermione sighed. She went over her list with Roger, and he was at least able to point her towards the right Sections for most of them.

She'd started with house-elves, as though it was perhaps of the least practical value, it was ethically the most _important_ question she'd come up with so far, ahead of both what was being done to children sorted into Slytherin and her concerns about the pre-Hogwarts education of magical families. But in the back of her mind, she couldn't help continuing to think about other things that demanded understanding.

As the hour for dinner approached, she found herself frequently distracted by other students' talking in the Library, and was starting to commiserate with Madam Pince's increasingly strident attempts to quash such disruptions. Finally, the librarian was apparently pushed past her limits, and closed the Library entirely, herding everyone out with exhortations not to come back until they could maintain proper decorum. Hermione, vexed, approached one of the knots of students left gossiping outside the doors.

"You know, some people actually _wanted_ to use the Library for studying," she began, crossly.

"How can you think about studying _now_?" asked a second-year girl she didn't know.

"Why...what's going on?"

"It's Madam Pomfrey," said the girl, breathlessly. "She's dead!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! Once again, sorry it took so long to get this update up, but I had a lot of background to work out, including a canon-respecting but actually sensible class schedule and nailing down (for this fic, anyway) some open questions about how magic works. Plus, some lazing about. But mostly the schedule, which I am unreasonably proud of.
> 
> However, procrastination pays off in some ways, as just as I was about to post this, I noticed a PM from LovingPillow, who figured out the door riddle! Congratulations! As it happens, the way I ended up writing the next chapter, I couldn't work the answer smoothly into the story, so it'll be left unsaid for future readers to puzzle over. I'll continue shout-outs to other readers who PM me the correct answer, but please don't pester previous winners for hints!
> 
> On the upside, things are starting to heat up plot-wise (in addition, of course, to the canon plot that's still going on). Hopefully none of my readers are *too* fond of Madam Pomfrey. I occasionally write some hidden scenes that won't necessarily ever be published, just to keep things straight in my head, and what happened to Poppy hit me with some feels. I also hope it isn't *too* obvious what happened there (it's hard for me to tell, since obviously, I know already), but rest assured, even if you're a smarty-pants and have figured that out, there will be more twists to come.
> 
> 2016-06-02: Thanks to /u/benthor for the brit-pick on lockers not being a thing in the UK!


	9. Interlude - Dubius

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer time - I've read (and love) *Harry Potter and the Methods of Rationality*; it's actually what gave me the kick to start my own fic. While there's bound to be some overlap - since both contain muggle science and a 'genuinely smart' Hermione - I'm deliberately making some different choices about how magic 'works', and keeping almost all the other characters essentially canon, in the hopes of steering things away from just being a rehash of the same themes. I've no desire to re-write HPMOR...I seriously doubt I could improve upon it. (N.B. Be cautious in taking that as a recommendation to read it - while it's very well written and terribly funny at times, it also goes to some shockingly dark places.)
> 
> Of course, there's an issue with Hermione using 'genuine' intelligence while no one else changes, though - quite often the answer to questions along the lines of, "Why did character A not simply X or Y or Z, were they just dumb?" is that if they *had*, the story would've been much shorter (or, from another perspective, much harder to write well). For the purposes of this fic, I'm just going to play those things where they lie. Even if some canon issues end up resolved 'early', there will be logical repercussions and consequences that I hope will keep things interesting. That said, I've no illusions that I'm writing a masterpiece, here - I'm having fun so far, hopefully you are too!

o-o-o-o-o

 

Albus Dumbledore waited calmly as all but one of the Professors and staff filed out of his office. Once they'd gone, Professor McGonagall took a seat in front of his desk - the meeting that had just concluded had not been long, and no one had been seated. Only then did he settle into his own chair.

"So, Minerva. I presume, by your request to remain, that you've objections you wanted to voice in private?" the Headmaster asked, mildly.

"A murder, at Hogwarts. A _murder_ , at _Hogwarts_ ," she repeated, with emphasis. The woman paused, as if unsure how to continue.

"Which implies a murderer, of course. And while it is not clear how much time the culprit had before Madam Pomfrey was discovered, I nevertheless sealed Hogwarts against exit - possibly trapping a murderer inside with us...and our students," he prompted, calmly.

"So, you understand my consternation, then?"

"I do." He waited. While he would not typically begrudge an explanation to one who had a right to it, the demands on his time were...considerable. It was a fact of his existence that he could avoid a great many uncomfortable conversations with a subtle reminder of the trust he had _earned_ , by virtue of being both talented and right, on many occasions. It was pure reputation, and he was not above using it...sometimes, that alone was enough to forestall objections and allow him to get on with the actual work.

"And yet, you've done it anyway. Nor have you summoned Aurors. And you're going to allow everyone to believe this was Poppy's... _negligence_ ," she persisted. Apparently, this was not to be one of those times.

"You know what is being guarded here, and what the consequences could be if it fell into the wrong hands. If this incident is not related - and for the moment it is unclear how it would be - every additional witch or wizard admitted would be another potential avenue for exploitation...even Aurors. Whereas I have every faith in the staff's ability to locate and subdue Madam Pomfrey's assailant."

"What about the _students_?"

"The lengths to which the murderer went to make it appear a tragic accident strongly suggest an interest in remaining unnoticed - it seems unlikely they would take further rash action without waiting to ensure their subterfuge was successful, and thus the students should be in no danger for some period. And in regards to that subterfuge, I believe Poppy would not begrudge a _temporary_ besmirching of her reputation, in the interests of seeing justice served."

"Albus, we're not _trained_ for this," McGonagall insisted, frustrated.

"Neither are murderers, by and large, yet they do succeed in their grim work with alarming frequency. Should _we,_ who have the advantage of a noble cause, expect any less of ourselves?" Dumbledore knew how this sort of thing sounded when he said it - a mixture of inscrutable wisdom and hopeless naivete. It made it difficult for most people to debate against him, particularly those who respected him; the inscrutability and his reputation made them worry they'd seem a fool for arguing later, the naivete as if they'd be kicking a puppy. Sure enough, Minerva got that look on her face that said she had in no way conceded the argument and yet was at a loss to continue it.

For a moment, as occasionally happened, Dumbledore felt an urge to tell her his entire plan, or even _all_ his plans. It grew lonely at times, having no one to confide in. But while there were obvious advantages of security in plans no one knew about, they held a subtler virtue as well. If you only revealed the _successful_ plans, _after_ the fact...your _apparent_ success rate became, well, startlingly impressive.

The urge passed, as it always did.

"Was there anything else?"

"Actually, there _was_ one other matter. There's a first year who requires additional supervision in Transfiguration - Hermione Granger."

"Ah. Another Moira?" the wizard asked slowly, his face for a moment showing every year of its age.

"No...I caught it early, thank Merlin, and she appears to understand the seriousness of the matter. Though she seems even brighter than Moira was, which makes things both better and worse."

"Very well. Keep me informed, but as always I will leave such matters to your judgement." McGonagall nodded, her expression equal parts grim and satisfied, though her eyes held a hint of pity as well. She strode out of his office.

Once she'd gone, Dumbledore seemed to deflate a bit, the imposing and confident arch-wizard somehow replaced by an old man, tired and uncertain. There were downsides to his penchant for plotting, of course, chief among them the necessity that he alone bore the burdens of the damage from plans that failed, and often even of those that succeeded.

He sat, slumped, for some time.


	10. Discrepancies

The Great Hall was buzzing with whispers as Hermione sat down at the Ravenclaw table for dinner. Their content was mostly along the lines of what she'd heard outside the Library - that the school healer was dead - along with rumors and speculations as to what had happened. Among other things, she'd heard that it had been a rare and lingering disease she'd contracted while doing aid work in Borneo, that Peeves had finally managed to scare someone to death, that she'd sacrificed her own life in a grand ritual to permanently rid the world of Influenza, and that Professor Snape and a Beater for the Kenmare Kestrels (whatever that meant) were both secretly in love with her and she'd been killed by a stray spell as they dueled for her hand.

Hermione wasn't sure _how_ to behave - no one she'd ever known had died, and she hadn't even _met_ the school healer. She was certain she ought to feel sad, and felt a bit guilty that she didn't feel sadder, but trying to _make_ herself feel sad didn't seem appropriate either. Hermione did point out to several people she overheard that all these rumors seemed implausible at best and disrespectful at worst, but received only dirty looks for her efforts. Maybe no one else knew how to behave either, and the gossip was just their way of filling in the gaps? Eventually, Professor Dumbledore stood, and everyone quickly quieted, waiting expectantly.

"As you have by now undoubtedly heard, earlier this afternoon Madam Pomfrey was found dead in the Hospital Wing." Only a few quiet murmurs followed, as indeed this was hardly a surprise. "Her death appears to have been a tragic accident...one of the lionfish spines in her supplies had somehow been contaminated with salamander blood, and the act of grinding it to powder - in a rare and unfortunate reaction - produced an invisible, odorless, and poisonous vapor, to which she succumbed. Though it may be slight comfort, Professor Snape assures me that the effects of the vapor, though deadly, would have been quite painless." At the Head Table, the Potions Professor, whose class Hermione didn't have until Thursday but who had been pointed out to her, nodded gravely. The expressions of the rest of the staff were a study in discomfort, ranging from Professor Trelawney, who was trying to appear unsurprised while wiping away genuine tears, to Professor Quirrell, who seemed genuinely terrified, to Professor McGonagall, who appeared to be grinding her teeth.

"Fortunately," continued Dumbledore, "the Hospital Wing was otherwise unoccupied at the time, and the vapor quickly dissipated, so there were no other casualties. Nurse Wainscott will be taking on the duties of Hogwarts Healer and Matron for the time being, a position I am sure she will grow into." A dark-haired young woman at the Head Table looked exquisitely uncomfortable at the uncertain and scattered applause that followed this announcement.

"A memorial service will be held Thursday evening after dinner, and any evening classes will be cancelled both that day and tonight, to allow everyone an opportunity either to attend or for private reflection as they prefer. In times such as this, we must remember to cherish the good in one another, for even when we journey onward, our love and laughter remains behind, to brighten the world. But for now, please, eat. If not from appetite, then out of respect for Madam Pomfrey's tireless care for our collective health - nourishment of course included." The food appeared, and it was an assortment of appropriately un-elaborate and comforting dishes. While it was possible someone had instructed them specifically, Hermione reminded herself to express her appreciation to the house-elves in the kitchen later, in case it had been their own idea.

Conversation over the meal was subdued. Apparently without the distraction of speculation, most students were content to keep their thoughts to themselves. What few found the heart to speak were mostly upper-years, reminiscing fondly over injuries or maladies they'd had or seen treated by the talented healer.

After dinner, once it became clear that the Library would not be re-opened, Hermione made her way back to her common room with most of the rest of the Ravenclaws.

"Without moving, we hurt. Without touching, we poison. We carry every truth and form every lie. What are we?" intoned the knocker.

Someone else got the answer first - Hermione was distracted by the inclusion of 'poison', which seemed highly inappropriate in light of the evening's tragedy. Maybe the door knocker, as smart as it seemed, didn't keep up with current events?

The Ravenclaw common room quickly segregated according to the students' respective coping mechanisms. Though it was only the first day, the upper-years already had a significant amount of homework, and most took advantage of the cancellation of evening classes to throw themselves into it as a distraction. The bulk of the younger Ravenclaws, Hermione included, instead sought closure in understanding, and began searching the Tower Library for appropriate books that might explain the rare reaction between lionfish spines and salamander blood.

"Here…" said Roger Davies suddenly. "''Salamander blood has rejuvenating and strengthening properties, and thus is often employed in healing potions'..." he quoted from the book he held.

"Well obviously, if Madam Pomfrey had some, it'd be good for healing," quipped Marietta Edgecombe. Roger shot the second-year girl a look.

"I wasn't _finished_ …" He cleared his throat elaborately, then continued reading aloud. "'In its dried form, however, when ground, the salamander's dynamic properties are invoked, encouraging the release of more potent essences from other materials. The prudent potioneer thus makes certain his ingredients are pure before any grinding step, as salamander blood contamination can produce unexpected results.'"

"I s'pose she wasn't prudent enough," mused Kevin. Roger shook his head.

"That's just the thing," the third-year said with a frown, "she _was_. I never heard of her making a mistake at all, let alone one like this."

"Well," said Hermione, "how does one check for the purity of ingredients, exactly? Just a visual inspection, or something more involved?" No one knew the answer to this question offhand, so they returned to the books, and eventually determined that identifying ingredient mixtures or contamination required careful testing with other substances that produced known reactions.

"So, it's labor-intensive enough that you _could_ do it every time, but in practice you'd need to rely on your supplier?" Hermione paraphrased. "Although...it sounds like that's for _identifying_ contamination, specifically. Couldn't you just use a general cleaning charm on any ingredient before using it and be safe?"

"I suppose," said Cho. "Though I'm not sure they'd work right on _everything_ without vanishing part of whatever it was you wanted to keep as well. But I'd think lionfish spines ought to be cleanable. As well as her mortar and pestle, obviously." Hermione frowned, and considered this.

"Well, I imagine it might get tedious, always cleaning your ingredients beforehand, when they're supposed to be clean anyway. Even responsible people can become lax about things they're supposed to do regularly," she noted, thinking of her parents' regular complaints about people who were haphazard in brushing. Cavities and gum disease _could_ actually become life-threatening in rare cases, so it wasn't a bad parallel. But Roger shook his head angrily.

"I don't think so...you didn't know her, it's just...no." Hermione didn't think much of Roger's objection in terms of logic, but he was clearly upset at the implication that it might actually be Madam Pomfrey's fault. She knew from her own practice that cleaning spells weren't particularly difficult to cast, though she hadn't tried casting any _repeatedly_...maybe it would get tiring? Or maybe using magic on potion ingredients beforehand might cause some side-effect just as bad as what you were trying to prevent?

"I haven't even _had_ Potions yet, though I read the book, and it doesn't mention anything about cleaning spells," Hermione offered, in a conciliatory tone. "Maybe there's some reason not to use them?"

"That's right...we've never used them during brewing, ever, only to clean up our workspaces afterwards," Roger said. "I have my first third-year Potions tomorrow, I can ask Professor Snape about it." Hermione nodded.

"I'm sure we can find an explanation for what happened, and it needn't reflect poorly on Madam Pomfrey," she said. "I was actually thinking of finding out where her supplies came from and sending an owl to inquire anyway."

These declarations seemed to satisfy everyone that there were no further immediate avenues for discovery, and the group broke up, heading to their respective dorms.

Hermione penned the first draft of a letter, but it was past curfew, so she'd need to wait until the morning to find out where to send the owl anyway. She spent the last couple hours before going to sleep continuing to read one of the - rare, as it turned out - books she'd found in the library that mentioned house elves more than in passing.

She'd considered writing her parents as well, but she wondered what they would think if she mentioned that the school healer had died. Not exactly confidence-inspiring, that. They might even pull her out of the school. But writing and _not_ mentioning Madam Pomfrey would be lying by omission. Better to wait to write at all until she had all the facts and could frame things in the best possible light.

Before falling asleep, she thought about the Weasley Twins. She supposed they'd heard about her reaction in Transfiguration class. Depending on what sort of bullies they were, either that would satisfy them and they'd move on, or it would only encourage them...but the way they'd framed things as a "war" suggested they weren't _solely_ interested in cruelty for its own sake. She'd have to just try _re_ -surrendering tomorrow morning, and hopefully that would put an end to it.

That night, she had troubling dreams that she couldn't quite remember upon waking.

o-o-o

Before breakfast, Hermione found her way to the kitchens once again. The choice of fare last night _had_ been the elves' own notion, and she thanked them for their consideration. A few alluded to some past conflict with Madam Pomfrey - conflicting orders from her on appropriate nutrition, and from students who wanted special treats - but they held only the highest respect for her, as she had been as devoted to her job as they were to theirs. The elves were all quite pleased at being thanked, though, and seemed inclined to lavish Hermione with favors. Her protests and refusals took so long that by the time she escaped the kitchens, she had no time left to search out potion ingredient suppliers.

Hermione reached the Ravenclaw table just as the food was appearing, and sighed. Apparently at least one of the kitchen elves hadn't heard her strident refusals, or perhaps "hadn't heard" - in practice there did appear to be some leeway in the obedience clause of their contracts - because in addition to the other dishes, a plate of pancakes had appeared directly in front of her seat, which unlike the others was festooned liberally with whipped cream and sliced strawberries. The special treatment did not go unnoticed.

"Hey!" said Michael Corner, a bit loudly, "Why've you got dessert for breakfast? Is it your birthday or something?" Hermione shook her head, but before she could explain another interjection cut in.

"She's been down to the kitchen to butter up the help again, I expect," said Morag, who'd noticed Hermione's nearly-late arrival. Hermione gave her an exasperated look.

"I wasn't _buttering them up_ ," she protested, "I just wanted to _thank_ them for their consideration with dinner last night." Morag shrugged, but did not look convinced.

"It did seem rather homey and normal," mused Padma. "Nice of them to think of it, I suppose."

"We can find the kitchens after History of Magic today," Terry suggested to Michael, "and thank the elves for Hermione's pancakes...then tomorrow _we_ should get 'em, and we can just keep on thanking them in turn and have dessert-breakfasts forever!" Hermione sighed again, and refrained from pointing out that they could likely simply _ask_ for what they wanted and the house elves would bend over backwards to provide it, with or without thanks. If they _were_ inclined to overindulge every day, at least this way they'd be showing some appreciation for it.

"This is actually a bit much for breakfast, honestly, so you're welcome to share if-" She leaned back hastily as the boys lunged over the table to begin scraping her serving onto their own plates. Hermione replaced it with more sensible selections, though she couldn't help one wistful glance at the sliced strawberries as they vanished with alarming speed into Terry and Michael.

Once she'd finished eating, she got up and began to make her way toward the Gryffindor table, but Roger Davies rose as well and caught up to her first.

"Hey," he said, a trifle awkwardly. "I just wanted to thank you for helping with - you know - finding out what happened, and not just assuming the worst."

"Oh...it's no trouble. I suppose I'd want someone to do the same if something like that happened to me. Did you...know her well?" Hermione asked, not without her own awkwardness.

"Sort of. I had a few spills first-year in Flying, and I got sick last year, so I've spent a lot of time in the hospital wing." He looked even more awkward, though Hermione wasn't sure why. She supposed he might be embarrassed about falling off a broomstick, but that didn't really fit with getting sick.

"Well, I'll let you know when I get any responses...I should be able to send the owls before dinner." He nodded and withdrew. Since it seemed so important to him, Hermione really hoped for Roger's sake that whatever they discovered _did_ excuse Madam Pomfrey from responsibility, though she knew that was not a foregone conclusion. She resumed her path and arrived at the Gryffindor table, nodding at the friendly waves from Ron and Harry. Though her stomach felt unsettled as she neared and second-guessed her plan. Surrendering immediately hadn't worked yesterday, what if it only egged them on? Was there some other way?

"Misters Weasley, could I have a word in private?" she said a bit stiffly, and Ron looked confused until he realized she was speaking to the Twins, at which point he still looked confused. The elder brothers shared a silent look, then shrugged and rose, each extending an arm away from the table.

"After you - Miss Granger," they said, dividing the sentence and mimicking her formal tone with an added subtle hint of mockery. Hermione pursed her lips, but didn't comment, and preceded them to a deserted corner of the Great Hall. Once they arrived, the brothers didn't say anything, instead waiting for Hermione to start. She took a deep breath and tried to keep her voice steady.

"As I'm sure you already know, I discovered yesterday that my Self-Inking Quill had been replaced somehow with a similar one that held Disillusioning Ink instead," she said, quietly.

"Really? - for shame!" they said, alternately. "It's shocking what some miscreants - get away with these days. Although, we've some familiarity with these matters, and we'd be surprised - if any notes that vanished hadn't come back by dinner tonight. Assuming you haven't re-used the parchment, anyway…"

"Oh no," said Hermione. "They're back already...Professor McGonagall was kind enough to see to it." This casual remark was rewarded by an uncertain glance between the Twins. "At the time I decided not to name any likely suspects...though I _would_ like the original quill back...it wasn't entirely inexpensive, and I suspect every time I have to use a spare I'll be thinking about it...if that happens too often, maybe a couple names _will_ come to me," she mused theatrically. Though she tried to keep her face neutral, Hermione clutched her robes at her sides to keep her hands from shaking - she'd never actually tried _blackmailing_ someone before, though she wasn't sure just getting her proper quill back really counted anyway. But the boys looked only a bit concerned, and even managed to appear mildly wounded.

"Please, Miss Granger...a true Pranktitioner of the Unexpected Arts is not a _thief_. I suspect, if we were to actually engage in such a caper - not that we're admitting complicity in any such thing - the victim might find, upon counting her stash of spare quills - that she had one more 'spare' than she expected." They looked quite pleased with themselves, and Hermione blinked in surprise.

"Ah. Well...I hope this is the end of it? I have no intention of responding in kind, and I'm happy to publicly surrender again if you'd like. Any further incidents of this sort will only result in my own unhappiness and immediate appeals to authority. I really have better things to do with my time, and I'd _so_ hoped that this school wouldn't be like my previous ones..." She'd planned here on using the sort of wistful guilt-inducing tone her mother was ever so good at, but she found that she couldn't help recalling her earlier school days vividly and was forced to swallow a genuine lump in her throat. The Twins shared a glance and their expressions grew more somber.

"Our sincere apologies," they said in unison, bowing with elaborate arm flourishes and continuing their formal tone. "We'd been sure you would be a capable and enthusiastic opponent - and still think you _could_ be. Accordingly, we will call this not surrender but rather negotiated truce - and you may consider our Prank War in abeyance until such time - if ever - that _you_ wish to formally declare a renewal of hostilities - I actually think you mean 'festivities' there, Fred - ah, right you are George, renewal of _festivities_." Hermione wasn't sure how to react to this unexpected show of respect. In the face of her old memories, it threatened to overwhelm her fragile emotional state in the _opposite_ direction. She took a moment to compose herself and decide how exactly to respond.

"Accepted. For what it's worth, all told it's the...well, the _second_ -most considerate prank I've ever fallen victim to," she admitted, thinking of the Hufflepuff on the train. People were beginning to file out of the Great Hall at this point and after each giving Hermione a nod, the Twins joined the flow, talking as they went.

"That _was_ downright gallant of us, wasn't it George? We could've at least left the original quill in the castle eaves or a loo or something... - No other word for it, Fred, Knights Errant of Pranking, we are - of course we can't afford to get a reputation for _consideration_ \- obviously not, we just need to focus on more _deserving_ targets for a bit - so we'll not be as inclined towards mercy…"

Hermione shook her head and joined the throng of students heading to class as well.

o-o-o

Hermione's schedule for Tuesday was identical to Monday's, with the exception of History of Magic in fifth period, so she caught up with Ron and Harry on their way to Charms.

"What was that about, with Fred and George?" Ron asked, as she joined them.

"I'm honestly not sure...they're very peculiar, aren't they? But I was just trying to put their ridiculous 'Prank War' to rest," she said.

"Oh...pity," said Ron, looking disappointed. "After your trick with Scabbers, I was sort of hoping you'd give them a proper run." Hermione grimaced and sighed.

"There's so much to learn here...we really don't have time for that sort of thing, even if I _were_ so inclined, which I'm not. Besides, I still regret that and-" she broke off, her hand going to her mouth in horror. Ron and Harry noticed she'd stopped walking and turned back, looking confused and concerned, respectively.

"What is it?" asked Harry.

"Oh, Ron, I've just realized about Scabbers...I am _so_ sorry…" The Gryffindors shared a baffled look, then turned it upon Hermione. She looked even more uncomfortable, assuming their confusion meant they hadn't found out yet. "He must've been in the hospital wing with Madam Pomfrey, when...the vapor…" she trailed off, her expression stricken. As Ron realized what she meant, his expression became surprised, but not unhappy.

"Blimey...he dodged a bludger there, I hadn't even thought of that!" he admitted. Now it was Hermione's turn to be confused.

"He...dodged...what?" she asked, baffled on more than one level.

"Scabbers was already in our room when we got back from Defence Against the Dark Arts," explained Harry. "Madam Pomfrey must have finished her examination and dropped him off there before…it happened." Hermione nearly collapsed in relief, though it was short-lived as she realized they were nearly late for Charms, and she hurried everyone along.

Charms class was mildly irritating. Lavender Brown had apparently somehow lost her wand already, so Hermione (who'd clearly already mastered the Wand-lighting Charm) had to share her wand with the Gryffindor girl, then listen to her frequent complaints about how it didn't feel right as she tried to coach her through casting the spell.

"Honestly, how could you misplace something so important?" Hermione eventually asked, exasperated.

"I didn't _misplace_ it, I _know_ I had it in Defence yesterday, and I put it in my bag afterward. I didn't go looking for it until now, and my bag hasn't been out of my sight except for while I was sleeping. Besides, you saw Professor Flitwick cast all those spells trying to find it, and he couldn't...it must be one of those weird Hogwarts things that the upper-years say are always happening." Hermione frowned at this, but _Hogwarts, a History_ did have a great many mentions of odd things that had never been properly explained. Still, it was an article of faith for her that everything _had_ an explanation, even if no one had managed to figure one out yet.

"I don't know what I'll do if it doesn't turn up soon," Lavender continued, oblivious to Hermione's skepticism. "I suppose my parents will have to take me back to Ollivander's to find a new one. Which is a pity, as I _so_ liked the original...fir and unicorn hair, ten inches, just a hint of spring…" She sighed elaborately, staring into the distance as if pining over a lost love. When Hermione cleared her throat gently, the flighty Gryffindor came back to herself and grimaced at the wand in her hand as if it were a spoiled sausage.

"Maybe Peeves took it, they say he goes everywhere, even our _bedrooms_ ," suggested Hannah from her adjacent desk, her tone scandalized.

"If it's any consolation, he may _look_ like a little man, but he's not really. I've read he's not a proper ghost...he was never actually alive to begin with," Hermione pointed out, trying to reassure Hannah.

"Still...yuck," she said, and Hermione could only shrug and nod.

Charms finally finished, and mercifully Herbology still didn't involve any wandwork, so Hermione was able to reclaim her wand from Lavender. For just a moment, she wanted to stroke it and murmur soothingly to it, but that felt a little too close to the other girl's irritating feelings for her own wand, and she refrained. Still, it couldn't hurt to try and pick up some wand cleaner...she wasn't _certain_ that she was only imagining being able to see Lavender's oily fingerprints on it…

Defence class passed uneventfully, although Professor Quirrell was behaving oddly in a significantly different way than he had yesterday. Instead of jumping at noises and looking around shiftily, he stared off into the distance as if lost in thought, often for minutes at a time, sometimes in the middle of a sentence. Of course, when someone cleared their throat to snap him out of it, _then_ he'd jump. At first it was prompting from Hermione, who only wanted to minimize the interruptions to their education, but later it was largely the Slytherins, who delighted in having a legitimate excuse to provoke such a reaction from the Professor.

Transfiguration turned out to be surprisingly uncomfortable, in an unexpected way. The class proceeded as it had yesterday (albeit without the introductory warnings and agreement), with lecture and discussion for the first half, then practice for the second. After Professor McGonagall handed out the matchsticks, Hermione briefly reviewed her now-restored notes and dove straight in. In considerably less than a minute, she had a brilliantly shining needle.

"So, can you tell us _now_ how you're doing that so fast?" asked Su Li. Most of the nearby students immediately turned to listen.

"Just like the book and Professor McGonagall say, compare, contrast then conform. Just...it helps to be as _detailed_ as you can," she began, slowly. But she realized that wouldn't help them much if they didn't _understand_ the details, and she'd promised the Professor not to share her scientific insights with the students until the woman herself had learned enough muggle science to ensure general safety.

"I thought I _had_ been," said Padma. "Here, let me see your notes," she continued, moving to read over Hermione's shoulder. Instinctively, Hermione flipped the small stack of parchment over, hiding the writing. The look of surprise and _offence_ on the girl's face immediately made Hermione feel awful. She was about to hastily explain her promise to the Professor, but she paused to consider the implications. Just giving them the _idea_ would complicate things, if they knew any science at all they'd have to make the same promise...and if they didn't understand science as well as her, they might not take it quite so seriously. Furthermore, if she just told them she'd promised McGonagall not to say without explaining why, it'd seem like she was "conspiring" with a Professor, which from past experience would not go well. And if she just refused and didn't say _anything_ about why she was refusing…

"So that's how it is?" asked Morag, softly. "It's fine tae help with things like wand-licht, but when it comes tae _real_ magic, it's every witch for herself, hmm?" Padma's expression hardened, even as Hermione's grew more unhappy.

"It's not like that," Hermione protested, but had no words to continue with. Padma went back to her seat without another word and Morag nodded. Even worse, all of the nearby Slytherins were giving her looks that Hermione could only call _appraising_...like they were positively updating their estimations of her deviousness, or worthiness - for the few that might even consider those two concepts separable.

"Diligent practice, I suspect, will serve you much better in the long run than conversation," Professor McGonagall called out primly from the front of the classroom. Everyone turned back to their matchsticks, with only occasional glances at Hermione, who couldn't decide if the Professor had done her a favor or not by cutting the discussion short.

When class was over, she didn't linger to ask the Professor for advice - there was no sense in giving anyone more ammunition, and anyway she still had a new class to get to, today. Besides, just because she hadn't been able to think of a solution in an hour's time didn't mean there wasn't one to be found.

Hermione took a seat in the History of Magic classroom, and felt a familiar tightness in her chest as some Ravenclaws deliberately left empty desks between themselves and her. But she told herself it was for the best anyway, until she worked out how to handle the situation, trying to ignore the whispers she couldn't quite make out.

Though she knew what to expect, having read about Professor Binns in _Hogwarts, a History_ , Hermione jumped a little with most of the other students when the ghost entered the classroom, not through the doorway, but by simply floating straight through the chalkboard at the front. In a low drone, the translucent, wizened figure began to take roll, seemingly oblivious that no one responded to any of the names he read off, none of which sounded familiar at all. Hermione would've attempted to point this out, but he turned his back on the class and launched straight into a droning lecture, scrawling notes onto the chalkboard as he spoke in blurry and illegible ghost-chalk.

The students collectively shrugged and began to take notes or quietly talk amongst themselves, according to their individual predilection. Even Hermione found it difficult to pay attention and take proper notes, as the old ghost's voice seemed to have a hypnotic quality. She brought all of her late-night study-focus tricks to bear, but even she still found her attention wandering to the problem of her Transfiguration insights. Of course her housemates liking her wasn't as important as _safety_ , but she still thought it unfair. And unfair to them as well, as they could be doing just as well as her if they had the right information. Maybe Professor McGonagall would let the other Ravenclaws sit in on their science tutoring?

The students jolted back to attention (or consciousness, depending) when the class bell rang. Professor Binns asked them to write fourteen inches on the establishment of the International Confederation of Wizards by next week and Hermione glanced suspiciously at her notes, unsure of whether she'd actually missed something, or if the ghost was giving them homework entirely unrelated to what he'd been lecturing on.

"Thank Merlin we've only got him once a week," sighed Daphne. "Much more napping would mess up my sleeping schedule."

"And we all know you need all the beauty sleep you can get," sneered Pansy. The bigger Slytherin girl was in fact considerably less pretty than Daphne, but the latter grimaced slightly and didn't offer a comeback.

Hermione absently noted the byplay and added it to her mental tallies of Slytherin behavior, but left the classroom without delay, heading straight for the library. She needed to get the information about suppliers for the Hospital wing and send owls, resume her reading on house elves and continue her efforts to make sense of Madam Pince's organization of the library, catch Professor McGonagall at some point to schedule their extra lessons and ask about including her housemates in them...

o-o-o

As she walked to the Owlery to post her letters, Hermione thought about what she'd read. The information about house elves sounded well-reasoned, but it didn't seem to be supported by any actual historical references. This in itself wasn't necessarily damning - witches and wizards didn't seem to use many footnotes or bibliographies in _any_ of their books - but it did sort of remind her of early Classical philosophers, who tended to judge the truth of explanations largely by how they _sounded_. Once they found one that sounded "true", they stopped looking, even if there might have been other explanations that actually _fit_ better. Hermione found it hard to imagine an _elf_ coming up with what she'd read as something to _do_ rather than a Wizard coming up with it to try to explain something that already _was_.

The bit about the clothes, for example. The very few modern wizards who'd chosen to write at all about house elves explained it as an exchange of loyalty and dependence. Clothes were, above a basic level of modesty and personal comfort, an expression of _status_. Since an elf properly bound to a house was considered simply an extension of the family's wishes, they had no _need_ to display their own status, and given their size it wasn't hard to satisfy modesty with whatever happened to be lying around. Further, a loyal elf would always put her family's comfort above her own, plus spend most of her time in a comfortable home anyway. Clothes were thus obviously an unnecessary distraction, except in the rare case of an elf being dismissed (they did not use the term 'freed', Hermione noted). Though few wizards would apparently take on an elf so disgraced, it was judged a generous mercy that they be allowed to present their best face to prospective employers, which is why being presented proper clothing was the magical trigger for ending an elf's contract.

Hermione found herself dissatisfied with the situation, but at a loss for what to do about it. Particularly since the elves themselves seemed quite opposed to any efforts to change their conditions, or even to discuss them in that context. Maybe if they were just _used_ to how things were, she could think of some way to get them interested, thinking about the possibilities?

Once her letters to potion ingredient suppliers were off on various owls, she went in search of Professor McGonagall's office, and after being forced to backtrack a couple times, she managed to locate it. As she was about to knock, Hermione noticed the schedule of office hours helpfully affixed next to the door, which indicated that the professor was currently teaching sixth-year NEWT Transfiguration. In fact, the only time before curfew that she _wasn't_ teaching classes was Fridays between eight and nine in the evening, or the weekend. Hermione frowned, discouraged, and regretted not trying to catch the professor on her way out of the Great Hall after dinner.

"Miss Granger?" Hermione was not ordinarily a particularly jumpy person, but having just vividly imagined what Professor McGonagall might be teaching sixth-years at this very moment, when she heard the professor's voice behind her, she barely stopped herself from shrieking. The woman's lips twitched, but her eyes showed only concern. "My apologies, I didn't intend to startle you."

"It's not your fault, just the schedule…" she pointed over her shoulder, then wondered why the professor _was_ here if she was supposed to be teaching, and trailed off in confusion.

"As a duty to my students, I do keep to that schedule, though it is not _impossible_ to find me elsewhere, if I have other business," the professor explained. This did seem to make sense, though there was something about the way she'd said it that felt _odd_ to Hermione.

"Oh, I can come again later if you're busy…"

"If you've come to work out when we shall be having our 'lessons', that certainly qualifies as 'other business'," noted Professor McGonagall, arching an eyebrow. Hermione nodded, and followed her into the office, taking a seat.

"I think, given my other duties, it shall have to be weekends, though I suppose if more time is required I could give you a note to allow you to visit my office after curfew." The girl blinked at this, but nodded again.

"I'm not sure how to go about this, Professor...I've helped people of course, but I've never officially _tutored_ anyone before. I did bring some basic books for you to start with…" Hermione extracted three books from her bag, introductory texts on chemistry, biology and physics. Professor McGonagall accepted them, then flipped through the top one, blinking slightly at the small font size and color - but un-animated - photos and illustrations. "You'll need at least some basic maths...are you familiar with algebra and statistics?"

At the professor's blank expression, Hermione began to worry, but some brief back-and-forth established that Arithmancy did cover similar bases, though with some differing terminology.

"Here is my suggestion, then," said the professor. "Each week, I shall read a chapter from each and take notes of any concepts which seem confusing or unfamiliar, then we can meet and you can attempt to clarify matters. After a session or two, it should become clear how much time we will require, and whether more than one meeting per week is indicated."

"That seems sensible, though I wondered if it would be possible to include the other Ravenclaws as well?" The professor frowned.

"I should think not...at least until I have a sufficient grasp of the material to gauge its dangers." She noted Hermione's slightly crestfallen expression with a weighing look of her own. "Why do you ask?"

"I really do like showing other people what I've learned, and they were asking. But you'd said not to, and...some of them think I'm not sharing _deliberately_ , so I can...look better than them." Even as she felt the injustice of it anew, Hermione also felt a bit guilty, saying it out loud. Knowing things other people didn't _had_ always made her proud, so much so that it was hard to resist _showing_. But she'd never imagined trying to _keep_ other people down...not that she'd ever really had peers, much less significant rivals...there'd really been no one _to_ keep down. On the contrary, she'd often _wished_ she knew people who found everything as _interesting_ as she did.

"Did you not explain to them the prohibition I'd given you?" Hermione shook her head.

"It's...well, I've noticed that classmates sometimes...don't like it if someone is too friendly with the teacher?" The professor pursed her lips.

"I _am_ familiar with the concept, Miss Granger, I was once a young student myself. But you might try giving your fellow Ravenclaws the benefit of the doubt...they are, after all, as eager to learn as you, and thus perhaps more willing than some to take a professor's judgement and instructions at face value?" Hermione nodded. She had to admit, this hadn't occurred to her at all. She wasn't exactly _relieved_ \- it did make her feel a bit better, but at the same time worse, because she'd assumed the worst of her housemates, possibly unjustly.

"Now, curfew is nearly upon us, but before you head to your dormitory, I would like you to try to explain your theory about Moira Leigh-Smith, making allowances for the fact that I have yet to even _begin_ to gain what I presume is the proper context." Hermione blinked. It'd have to be very generalized...but it might also be useful...she'd always found learning even easier if she had some goal of understanding she was working towards. The professor waited patiently as the young Ravenclaw tried to choose the words to explain radioactivity without using any concepts more modern than the sixteenth century or so.

"Um. So, muggles have found certain...substances...that are, I guess you could say they're constantly Transfiguring themselves into something else...or no, not really, because they don't _want_ anything, it's just happening, because...er...the way they are _inside_ is unstable...like each tiny bit of the substance is a pile of salt on top of tiny circular pedestal...and when I say tiny bit I mean _much_ tinier than a single grain of salt...and if there's too much salt it spills grains off of the edges? That's actually a pretty good analogy, because, well, these substances, as they change, they _cast off_ little bits of...not themselves, exactly, but _other_ substances, or sometimes just energy...and anyway, those substances can, when they hit certain other substances, or even sometimes the air, cause a glow. But they _also_ can do _really bad things_ to, ah, the smallest parts of a living creature, and worse if the original substances get somehow taken inside _first._ And until fairly recently those bad parts weren't really _common_ knowledge, so I could see someone maybe trying to do that if they'd only _sort of_ understood it…" Hermione trailed off, and watched the professor hopefully.

Professor McGonagall's eyes flicked down to the books, and for the briefest instant Hermione thought she might've seen _trepidation_ in the woman's face, but if she did it was quickly buried under firm, if perhaps grim, determination.


	11. Interpersonal Development

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Congratulations to Mavarax, and duffman.c.d who answered the first riddle, Lance Corporal Avocado, who got the second (and had two solutions) and Pavitra, who got both, including a *different* logical solution for the first (Pavitra's solution is credited to Mandy in this chapter). Note - I won't be doing any more shout-outs for solutions to riddles - if you want to share, please use a Reddit thread and mark spoilers appropriately! Thanks to the guest reviewer for the Brit-pick about the pound-sign properly coming before the numerals, I went back and fixed that. And kudos to sharp-eyed reviewer Pendantech for catching the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy reference I couldn't resist dropping in. :)
> 
> Also, hi, /r/rational! I'd been giving the view statistics my best McGonagall eyebrow and *wondering* what had caused the ridiculous (in relative terms) spike in views… I read Reddit, but don't have an account, I'll probably make one some time so I can drop in - threads there seem a lot more convenient for discussion than the PM system on FF dot net.

o-o-o-o-o

Hermione sat at the Ravenclaw table, trying to eat breakfast despite her unsettled stomach. She really ought to have done it last night, as soon as she got back to the Tower. But the other students in her year had made no effort to approach her - quite the opposite, in fact. The occasional looks she'd received were either cold, or _hurt_ , and that just made everything worse. Because she felt she _deserved_ those looks, if not for the reasons they thought she did.

Every time she'd tried to gather her courage to walk up to someone and just explain as Professor McGonagall had recommended, a wave of shame had stopped her. Because it wasn't just that she'd handled this poorly - on top of that, the situation itself was inherently unfair to them, and she even _agreed_ that it was probably best regardless. All of which made her guilt genuine and hard to argue away. In the end, everyone had gone to bed without a word to Hermione, and she'd convinced herself that it might not seem so bad after a night's sleep. They'd all be together at breakfast and she could just explain and apologize.

Except that at breakfast, she'd found herself surrounded by a little zone of empty space, no one immediately across from her or to either side, and having said nothing last night, it now seemed even harder to be the first to break that silence. On top of that, she'd grown accustomed to this sort of shunning behaviour before coming to Hogwarts, and her old habits of non-engagement were seductively easy to slip back into.

When owls swept into the Great Hall for morning deliveries, it was a welcome distraction. Hermione was actually surprised when a rolled bundle dropped into her lap, as she hadn't expected any replies to her inquiries quite so promptly. However, a glance showed that it wasn't letters, but a copy of the Daily Prophet. That had been one of the things on her list, and she'd only remembered at the last minute to owl off money for subscriptions for both her and her parents, along with the other letters she'd sent. Her talk with the Transfiguration professor and her subsequent social anxiety had pushed it entirely out of her head until this moment.

The delivery attracted some glances her way...reading was quite common at the Ravenclaw table, of course, but it was usually books. The few students with Daily Prophet subscriptions were largely concentrated among Seventh-years, obsessive quidditch fans, and Slytherins. For a moment Hermione thought Morag was about to say something, and even if it was snide she would've welcomed it as an opening, but the girl only sniffed and went back to her breakfast. Nor did anyone seem inclined to go against the example she set, once established.

Hermione resolved to just read the newspaper and try not to think about it until Transfiguration...she told herself she could just explain to everyone then, and it'd be better since the professor would be present to verify if anyone didn't believe her. But even with the pages held up to hide her housemates from view, she still found herself having to re-read whole paragraphs before they sunk in and occasionally puzzling over unfamiliar references. When a certain article finally registered on her, she poured back over it, eyes flicking quickly down the columns.

_As promised, your humble correspondent continues today her unflinching examination of the troubling state of education in Britain. Loyal readers of my column know from reading yesterday's article that Madam Poppy Pomfrey, Matron at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, was discovered dead as the_ apparent _result of a rare potions mishap._

_A tumultuous storm of unanswered questions continues to whirl about the dark affair. How could such an accident take place? What was the precise_ nature _of the potion which went so tragically wrong? Was Madam Pomfrey indulging in reckless experimentation, at the risk of innocent students? Were dangerous ingredients being smuggled into Hogwarts under the very noses of supposedly responsible administrators? Or was this event the result of incompetence...on the part of those who judged the victim a trustworthy practitioner of medical magic?_

_Any responsible citizen - certainly any good parent - must ask, if we cannot trust the staff of this once-respected institution to keep even_ themselves _safe and healthy, how can we entrust them with the lives of our very children, the future of this great nation?_

_Left there, the situation would be grim indeed, but this story may take an even darker turn. In the course of my tireless efforts to uncover the truth on behalf of a public hungry for knowledge, I was_ turned aside _. For Hogwarts itself has been_ sealed _against entry or exit to_ anyone _, even the most respected members of the press!_

_Albus Dumbledore, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards and Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry (if you think that is a mouthful to say, just imagine the inadvisable level of overwork required to_ hold _such positions simultaneously), has informed the Ministry via owl that the total interdiction of Hogwarts is "temporary", and due to "routine testing of Hogwarts wards and security"._

_This excuse seems rather convenient, in that it is shielding the school from any scrutiny...scrutiny that might otherwise suggest incompetence at Hogwarts runs even deeper than the support staff. I would be remiss if I did not also note that this unusual restriction has prevented even aurors from performing a formal inquest, though an official statement by a DMLE spokeswizard claimed no such inquest was "deemed necessary"._

_While, in the face of such frustrating - if not indeed nefarious, as some rumors have suggested - obstacles to public disclosure, a less reputable writer than I might indulge in chilling speculation unworthy of these hallowed pages, you may rest assured my quill will not lie fallow for long, for if there_ is _evidence to be uncovered, I consider it my solemn duty to bring it into the light for all to see._

_Loyal Servant of Truth,_

_Rita Skeeter_

Hermione frowned deeply as she tried to parse all this. Early on in Hermione's precocious development, her parents had noted her instinctive deference to printed material. They'd actually tried to keep her from reading newspapers as long as they could, until her arguments became too sensible to avoid. At which point they had made a point of explaining that while there were ostensibly standards for scholarship in newspaper articles, they were _much looser_ , and she should be wary of innuendo or opinion stated as fact.

Still, the whole tone of the...article?...opinion piece?...was baffling. Nearly everything Hermione had read previously agreed that Hogwarts was the best magical school in Europe (indeed, most writers extended this comparison to the entire world, though Hermione had noticed there was very little mention in general of magical education on other continents). This woman, whoever she was, seemed inclined to jump to the worst conclusions, even considering that there _had_ been a death at the school.

If what the article had mentioned about Hogwarts being sealed was true, it seemed odd that she hadn't heard any mention of it. That note about the Forbidden Forest at the welcome feast sort of implied that students occasionally wandered outside the walls, or it wouldn't have needed to be explicitly forbidden. And she'd read that later-years were allowed to visit Hogsmeade, the village adjacent to the school, on certain weekends, but those visits wouldn't begin for some weeks. Perhaps no one had noticed? Or maybe just this _particular_ journalist had been barred from the grounds, which given her writing, Hermione didn't think all that unlikely...though that would have required her to have completely made up the bit about the Ministry having been informed.

It occurred to her that the question might be of general interest, which presented an opportunity to try to reverse her isolation. She took a couple of deep breaths and tried to banish her fears of social catastrophe, then lowered the paper and turned to the nearest student outside her little circle of exclusion, who happened to be Terry Boot. He and Michael were deep into tall stacks of pancakes with whipped cream and strawberries that they'd apparently successfully bludgeoned out of the house elves via strategic gratitude.

"Um...excuse me…?" she essayed once, then repeated herself, more loudly.

"Eh? What?" asked Terry. He looked confused and glanced briefly at Morag, as if unsure whether he'd missed something that made it okay to talk to Hermione again, but the girl's dour expression was not encouraging.

"I just wondered if anyone had heard anything about Hogwarts being 'sealed'...not letting anyone go in or out? Other than owls, I suppose, since clearly they've not been stopped...anyway, I've just read an article that's mentioned it..." Hermione continued, doggedly. Terry only shook his head without elaboration, and Hermione was chalking up the attempt at conversation as a definite failure when Mandy, on her other side, unexpectedly spoke up.

"I did, sort of. I didn't know it was a general thing, but after dinner last night Lavender was in the lav outside the Great Hall, whinging that when she'd asked McGonagall for her or someone to chaperone her to the Ollivander's in Hogsmeade to pick out a new wand, the Professor said that no one would be available for the near future. And when she said she'd just get one of her parents to come and take her, the Professor said they wouldn't be able to because of some official school business, and she'd just have to wait. She kept going on about how unfair it was, that it was probably a conspiracy to let the other students catch up a bit since she's so _naturally gifted_." The girl raised her hands, one still holding a fork, to make finger quotes around the last bit. "Which sounds even more rubbish than what generally comes out of her mouth. But she swore the other stuff was true."

Several Ravenclaws, Hermione included, turned to crane their necks past the intervening Hufflepuffs toward the Gryffindor table, and sure enough, Lavender did seem to be in a foul mood. They couldn't hear what she was saying, but from the expressions of the unlucky students seated near her, it seemed reasonable to assume she was still complaining.

"That's too bad, Hermione," said Morag, as everyone had turned back to the table. "I suppose that means you'll have to keep letting her use your wand, and we _all_ know how you feel about _sharing_ , don't we?" Hermione felt a wave of heat rising up her neck, and was horrified to feel her throat closing up a little. In her experience, when someone was deliberately being horrid to her, crying had _always_ made things worse. Not that knowing that necessarily helped. She desperately tried to force her indignation at the injustice of the situation to bubble up...if she was angry enough, she'd be too distracted…

"Ok, _look_ , Morag, that's just…" But she realized couldn't say it was factually untrue, because as much as she enjoyed being helpful, Hermione genuinely _didn't_ like letting Lavender borrow her wand. "...you're just taking things the wrong way," she finished, a little lamely.

"Huh, Charms _and_ 'how to take things'...see, Morag, there's _two_ things she's willing to help us with, guess you were wrong…" chimed in Padma. Morag smirked at the jibe, and Hermione felt the beginnings of gathering moisture at her lower eyelids. For whatever reason, the Scottish girl had seemed to be increasingly alert for a chance to snipe, but while it might have been rather early to call her a friend, Hermione had _liked_ Padma, and hearing her join in as well was too much.

"For your information, I _couldn't_ help with Transfiguration," she shot back, hotly. "Professor McGonagall made me promise not to!" The nearby Ravenclaws greeted this declaration with skeptical looks.

"Why on earth would she do that?" demanded Morag, in tones dripping with scorn.

"I can't tell you, exactly, that's _part_ of it. I can say she thought it might be dangerous," offered Hermione. "But she's studying...ah, the issue, and if she eventually decides its safe she can include it in her lessons." Morag narrowed her eyes.

"That doesn't make any sense. Why would it be dangerous for _us_ , but not for _you_?" _Because none of you seem to have learned nearly as much science as I have,_ Hermione thought, _and a_ little _knowledge can be more dangerous than a lot?_ But she couldn't say that.

"I...can't explain it without explaining the whole thing. If you don't believe me, you're welcome to ask Professor McGonagall," Hermione said, wearily.

"We don't have Transfiguration today," pointed out Stephen Cornfoot. Hermione was startled to realize he was right...their final Transfiguration session of the week was tomorrow, Thursday. She wasn't sure why she'd assumed it was later today, she must have slept even more poorly than she'd thought.

"That seems awfully convenient," noted Morag.

"So ask her _tomorrow_ , then, or walk right up to the Head Table if you can't wait!" The expressions around her showed suspicion, and Hermione nearly started sobbing then and there, but she couldn't bear the idea of breaking down in front of Morag, and if she tried to leave as quickly as she wanted to, she'd probably trip over the bench and look even worse. She made a concerted effort to concentrate on breathing evenly, instead.

"If the Professor told you not to help us, why didn't you just _say_ that?" asked Padma, in an echo of the hurt confusion she'd shown in class. Hermione slumped, bowing her head.

"I really, really _ought_ to have. I just...I wasn't sure _what_ I could say, and I…" She took another breath to calm herself, and tried to meet Padma's eyes. "I thought if you thought I was...'conspiring' with the Professor, you might like me even less."

For a moment, while this remark was absorbed, no one said anything.

"Um, if you thought _this_ -" said Mandy, breaking the silence and waving a hand at the no-mans-land around Hermione's place at the table, "would be _better_ …" She trailed off and there was another pause, until Kevin let out a snicker, and then other laughs joined him. Hermione herself couldn't help but let out a few strangled half-chuckles, as she realized the laughter wasn't malicious...even she could see the absurdity of it, once it'd been pointed out.

Hermione noticed that Morag MacDougal did not join in, and that there was a certain amount of not-looking in her direction on the part of the others. Had she actively _convinced_ everyone to act the way they had? The part of her that still worried about the Sorting being biased and unfair noted that unpleasant qualities could be found _outside_ of Slytherin, and was encouraged - in an entirely academic way - as that supported her theory. But a much stronger impulse reminded her that it was unfair to _assume_ behavior was the result of inherent attributes, rather than otherwise understandable circumstances she just didn't happen to have all the details of.

o-o-o

In Charms, Hermione did indeed have to loan her wand to Lavender, and in her continual nattering, everything Mandy had reported was confirmed several times over. She tuned out the Gryffindor, instead giving some thought to how her House fit together, at least in her own year. Mandy seemed very sharp. That first night, while Hermione had quickly figured out the answer she assumed the knocker _wanted to hear_...because the numbers of knuts added up to make one sickle, the man had been a farmer - a lot of riddles involved silly puns that way, the American riddle she'd remembered hinged on the double-meaning of the phrase "quarter to two", and also involved coins. But Mandy had offered a completely _different_ solution, arguably more logical - that if the man was "leaving" things to his sons, he was dead, and thus had no profession - and indeed, the knocker had complimented her on sound logic and opened the door.

Terry, Michael and Anthony seemed to be making a point of sitting and walking together. Hermione still marveled at how some people just seemed to be able to instantly make friends, and envied them. She'd read How to Win Friends and Influence People years ago, of course, once she'd identified she had a problem in that area, but she couldn't seem to effectively put its recommendations into practice. Something about that thought prompted the mental tickle that signaled the beginnings of an idea, but she didn't try to force it...that was something she'd read in a different book that she _had_ been able to internalize.

Padma appeared to be as curious about everything as Hermione was, which might have been why she'd felt an early kinship, even if it was based only on sharing a train car and a couple days of classes. Kevin Entwhistle was similar, though he was much more quiet about it. He was muggle-born like her, but he seemed to be taking longer to adjust to the strangeness of everything here. Whereas Su Li was just plain quiet...she very rarely spoke, but when she did, it usually showed she'd been paying attention and thinking the whole time.

Morag often walked to classes with Stephen Cornfoot. Hermione wasn't sure what they talked about, but Stephen hadn't shown any of the animosity Morag had, he seemed to just want to concentrate on studying and homework and if he had interests beyond that, she hadn't seen any sign of it yet. Which left Morag herself.

She _was_ smart, and knew a thousand little details of magical life that Hermione hadn't encountered yet. But why she seemed to take such satisfaction in making trouble for Hermione was a mystery. She wondered if simply _asking_ the girl would help, or only make things worse. Maybe if she just made an effort to be nice to her no matter what, she'd change her mind...that was a pretty good policy in general, anyway.

This thought brought a fresh surge of guilt about how she'd been thinking of Lavender, so Hermione put her thoughts into practice and focused on calmly helping the Gryffindor no matter how many times she disparaged Hermione's wand. Though now that she was paying closer attention, she noticed Lavender had been doing that a little less...maybe she'd realized she had no idea how long she'd need to rely on it for Charms classes and was trying to make the best of it, in her own way.

o-o-o

Herbology passed uneventfully, and Hermione was pleased to discover from the seating and conversation at lunch that her isolation had in fact broken, though Morag's expression said she was reserving judgment until Thursday. This left her with nothing but free periods and dinner before curfew; normally her Flying class would be Wednesday afternoons with Hufflepuff, but for whatever reason, that class didn't start until the second week. As she walked to the Library, she started mentally blocking out how best to spend her time.

Obviously she'd continue her research on house elves, but she decided to block out at least an hour for seeing if there were any spells that could help her _find_ books in the Library, or make sense of Madam Pince's organization...success there would make everything else much easier. Similarly, checking to see if there were any rigorous studies of which muggle technology stopped working around Hogwarts and _why_ seemed worth an hour or two...if there was any way around that, a computer would be much more convenient for organizing and revising her own notes than all of this endless quill-scratching. And she wanted to finish reading the Daily Prophet, now that she was less distracted, since it was a pretty good-

Hermione stumbled to a halt in the corridor, her mouth agape in horror.

The Daily Prophet. Which held at least one article referencing Madam Poppy's death, and which had presumably _also_ been delivered to her parents' house this morning. But they had no way of telephoning her, or sending a letter, nor could they find the Leaky Cauldron or Hogwarts without a witch's help, and even if they _could_ , they'd be refused entry to the school…and the article had been _so_ unfavorable...

Hermione sprinted towards the owlry, stopping only briefly at the first empty classroom she passed to hastily scrawl out a letter at one of the desks.

When she reached the owlry, Hermione skimmed over the letter a couple times. She was very concerned that her parents might react poorly and just give up the whole magic thing as a bad job, pulling her out of Hogwarts...and the more frustration they encountered trying to find out what was going on, the more likely that seemed. She felt a bit guilty about trying to manipulate them with the bit about making friends "if I'm here long enough", but not guilty enough that she wanted to leave it out. It was still technically true, after all.

She approached one of the common owls - distinguished from student-owned owls by small anklets that bore the Hogwarts crest - and realized she might be able to get some direct information.

"Hello. Can you understand English in general, or only directions for delivering things?" The tawny owl cocked its head at her.

"Er, nod if you can understand English?" The owl bobbed its head. "Ok...can you deliver things directly to a muggle, or better, to a muggle house, even if there aren't any witches or wizards there at the moment?" Hermione had changed her question after imagining one of her parents receiving a bizarre newspaper _delivered by owl_ while they were in their office, or on the tube or something. The owl nodded again.

"Ok, good. Can you understand when _muggles_ ask you to do things, or take something somewhere?" The bird cocked its head. "Hmm. Nod if you _can't_ understand when muggles speak to you." Another head-tilt. Maybe it had just never been spoken to by a muggle...or it couldn't tell them apart? Hermione shrugged.

"Well, here's a letter for my parents. If they're at the house when you deliver it, and it seems like they want to write back, please wait. If they try to pet you or give you crackers or something, it's probably safe to come back." The owl blinked at the word 'crackers', but lifted one foot, claws spread, and Hermione handed over the letter. It was in an envelope she'd folded out of spare parchment and addressed after she finished writing it.

Once the owl had taken flight, she removed her list of study topics from her bag and added a couple of clarifying notes to the line about owls, then resumed her interrupted journey to the Library.

o-o-o

_Dear Mum and Dad,_

_I'm not sure if you've read the paper yet - the Daily Prophet, I mean - but first let me stress that_ _everything is okay_ _. If you haven't read it yet, there was an accident and one of the staff died. But it was apparently a freak occurrence and very well-contained, so there's no reason to think it's anything but a tragic isolated incident. Remember, one of the main reasons Hogwarts is so well-regarded is they have a very good reputation for student welfare, I'm not sure how plausible Rita Skeeter's insinuations are._

_If you did read it, I'm sorry if you worried. I should've thought to make sure we bought an owl for you to keep at home so you could send letters to me as easily as I can send them to you, and I'll try to work that out the first chance I get...I'm not sure if you can owl-order an actual owl, would it deliver itself? But I am fine, everyone is fine here, really. I'm doing well enough in my classes so far, though we haven't had any quizzes or tests as such yet, so I can't be certain. I'm actually going to be tutoring one of my Professors in a few of the sciences that witches and wizards don't seem to understand very well, which might turn out to be pretty important even for magic. Oh, and I was sorted into Ravenclaw house, they actually have their own entirely separate library in the dorm (I'm sleeping in the top of a_ _tower_ _, the view is lovely), so I have_ _plenty_ _of reading material._

_I'm trying to get along with the other Ravenclaw students. It hasn't been exactly easy so far, but it's_ _much_ _better than my old school, and I do seem to have more in common with them. I think if I'm here long enough, I might eventually make some actual friends, which is a strange feeling, but it makes me happy to think about._

_Anyway, I'll send you a longer letter later with more details about my classes and magic and all this weirdness, but I just wanted to get something to you quickly so you wouldn't worry._

_I'll tell the owl that brought this to wait, in case you want to send something back. If you don't have time, or if it doesn't listen to me about waiting, just have something ready for the next one. If you tell it you have a letter for me as soon as it shows up, it_ _should_ _take it, though I haven't had time to find out for sure yet if owls only understand people who can do magic. If I haven't received any reply after my next two letters, I'll assume there's a problem there and work something else out._

_Love,_

_Hermione_


	12. Independent Study

Hermione sat at one of the library tables, her papers spread out across more than half the available surface. Her list had grown long enough that, along with her cumulative notes on each topic, it now took up a great many sheets of parchment. She'd even had to go into her trunk for some of her extra sheets, which she originally hadn't expected to need for at least a couple more weeks - she made a mental note to owl-order more. She'd tried to keep the first page relatively clean, though - as a sort of table of contents - and once again glanced over it, trying to confirm what was most important.

 

> _~Architectural Charms? Or entirely alternate physics around enough magical activity?_
> 
> _~Goblins - why can't they just make their own wands? Another Secrecy Statute?_
> 
> _~Teleportation? (Disapparition/Apparition)_
> 
> _~Electronics fail around magic. Electricity in general? But what about biological electric fields?_
> 
> _~Incantation pronunciations - "original" Latin? Why Latin and not Greek?_
> 
> _~How are spells constructed?_
> 
> _~Classmates' pre-hogwarts education_
> 
> _~How does the Sorting work?_
> 
> _~Why is Slytherin being pre-poisoned?_
> 
> _~Ghosts?_
> 
> _~Book - "Hat's Off" (ref back to sorting) - who mentioned that, a fourth year boy?_
> 
> _+House Elves - Slaves? History - origin of binding magic, servitude?_
> 
> _+Potion ingredient supplier(s) - purity/cleaning?_
> 
> _~Science education for Prof. McGonagall - adult teaching methods/teaching in general_
> 
> _~Owls - intuitive navigation? Understand English? Are they just a magic sub-species, or are all owls like this, and if so,_ _how_ _? Secrecy Statute again? Owls understand_ _laws_ _?_

Her work with Professor McGonagall was probably of the most immediate significance, but she wasn't sure what she could do there. She hadn't read and or brought any proper books on how to _teach_ complex subjects, and the Hogwarts Library hadn't been much help there either - if the Professors used books to help improve their teaching methods, they seemingly hadn't obtained them here. Though she found it hard to be _certain_ of that, given the horribly inefficient organization of the Library. There _was_ the Restricted Section, but she couldn't think of an obvious reason at the moment why abstract educational theory would be in there.

Again, she thought, if she could find some way to improve _that_ situation, then everything else ought to become much simpler...which just reaffirmed her earlier determination that an effort towards library efficiency was the best thing she could do _now._

Hermione slid over a fresh sheet of parchment and began mentally reviewing all the spells she'd seen so far, in the _Standard Book of Spells_ (Grade 1 and 2), _Practical Household Magic_ , and incidental discussion in classes or with other students - noting down any that related to finding, fetching, organizing. Even if there wasn't anything immediately suitable (which she didn't think there was, or she could've used it to help find Neville's toad), maybe she could start to see patterns in spell elements and make some headway on spell construction.

 

> _~Reminder Charm - plays short voice "recording" up to 3 hours later - memory storage, timing_
> 
> _~Housewitch's Secret - Copies down recipe used to prepare a dish (provides spell names, but not instructions or potion ingredients, ref. "Scarpin's Revelaspell"?) - analysis, decomposition_
> 
> _~Packing Spell (advanced) - Moves a large number of belongings into a container (but does so with most efficient use of space possible) - satisficing_
> 
> _~Amnesia Detection Charm - Makes you glow if you've forgotten something (but doesn't tell you what, which sort of makes sense, except_ _how_ _, then?) - self-telepathy + consistency? "divination"?_
> 
> _~Place-setting Charm - Sets out tableware properly for the desired number of guests - patterning, partitioning_
> 
> _~Intruder Charm - Sounds alarm if "intruder" enters area, can distinguish between individuals? - identification/classification_
> 
> _~Assembly Charm - Assembles something if all the proper parts are present (even if caster does not know how, manually?) - patterning_
> 
> _~Repairing Charm - Reassembles something, if all of the proper parts are present - patterning_
> 
> _~Four-Point Spell - Points wand north (which? Surely not magnetic north?) - gyro- or magneto-metry or "divination", "sourceless" knowledge?_
> 
> _~Summoning Charm ~ Floats an item directly to you as long as there's an open path, even around corners. No firm distance limit, but depends on strength of casting, familiarity of item, size of item. Spell takes an "argument", like a Pascal function, in plain English - can be very specific or vague up to some unspecified limit, spell generally does what you intend - Location, navigation, comprehension(!), identification_

She couldn't think of anything else at the moment, and considered what she'd gathered. The Summoning Charm really was shockingly flexible and useful, almost as if there was an intelligence behind it. But none of her reading thus far had suggested there were sapient _intermediaries_ in the effects of any spells. Could it be borrowing the caster's mind somehow? It was a more advanced spell, but if she could manage to cast it just a few times, she might do some tests, see if she was slower at maths or something while the spell was operating. But something about the idea of an external agency, and the Place-setting Charm, kept teasing at the edge of her mind. Tablewear, tables...

Hermione's train of thought was interrupted as she noticed extra writing had begun to appear on her parchment, from the bottom of the page up, and furthermore upside-down. She stared. It wasn't as if it were being written by an unseen hand exactly, but rather each line fading into view...as if a temporary Disillusionment charm was gradually wearing off the ink. Which now that she thought about it actually seemed quite likely, considering recent events, but when she rotated the page around to read the words, she was no less confused.

 

> _but without deliberate effort? Send owl to Beauxbatons library to check, but how do I get a reply without alerting Y.H.? Buy owl, instruct it to wait for reply and then wait in Hogwarts owlery when it returns?_
> 
> _Next, what changed (_ _not_ _like T.T. -_ _why_ _)? O. knows something, but what? "Destiny"? Could owl him, but if he is willing to Obliviate, what else might he do? Also,_ _too soon_ _after I "arrived" for a butterfly effect. Could T.D. have also come, but earlier? And then N.T...and P.P. on the train…anything before that? After..._
> 
> _I'm so sorry, Poppy. My fault. Should deal with P.P., but Merlin help me, "damage is done", he's likely to just go back to hiding until he's forced out. Unless T.R. notices...and how could he not?_
> 
> _I can feel myself slipping, but even when she's asleep, it's so hard to even think clearly without risking pushing Y.H. out entirely. I may not have much time. Such irony, even D.R. would get it._
> 
> _Just tell A.D. everything? Could_ _save him_ , _save a great many people, but still might provoke backlash, make things worse. Hold off for now, but also prepare for the worst - have to leave comprehensive notes somewhere secure just in case, try to limit damage to ~~ to ~~~_
> 
> _~~ test X X ~ test oh,_ _**honestly** _

The first theory that occurred to Hermione was that this was another, _deeper_ level to the Weasley Twins' prank, though it was more bewildering than vexing, which did not exactly argue in favor of that explanation. Also, under the circumstances, including references to Madam Pomfrey seemed further than they were likely to go. Plus, by the time she'd reached the end, her heart was unaccountably fluttering in her chest, and she somehow _knew_ that this was real, it was important. And it was _dangerous_.

Which was utter nonsense, she told herself. Knowledge came from _evidence_ combined with _logic_. Where was either in these cryptic notes, or this mysterious alarm she felt? By all rights she should take this immediately to Professor Flitwick (or maybe Professor McGonagall, who had some relevant background information already even if she wasn't Hermione's Head of House), explain how they'd "appeared", and then let him handle it. If it _was_ the Weasley Twins, she'd given them fair warning, and they deserved whatever came of it. If it _wasn't_ , if her strange foreboding was somehow correct, then telling a responsible adult was _also_ the right thing to do.

Hermione closed her eyes and took a few deep breaths, which is the first thing the best book on anxiety she'd read had said to do, when you suspected you were having a panic attack. Next was to acknowledge the situation. _I am feeling fear. Fear is a signal of danger, fear itself can't hurt me unless I do something in reaction - unless there is real danger, in which case I should go somewhere safe. Even if my fear is illogical, it does not mean something is wrong with me, it just means some part of my brain is interpreting something differently than my conscious awareness. So. Is there danger?_

She opened her eyes and looked at the parchment again, slowly, word by word. She felt a certain _unease_ , but no immediate sense of panic. _The first line is cut off. This is a continuation of another page of notes._ Hermione quickly sorted through her other notes, and the other blank parchment she had with her, but nothing else showed unexpected writing. _"without deliberate effort?" The writer is confused that something has happened spontaneously. Something that might be found in the library of France's premier magical school? Wait, they send owls as far as France? That seems-_ Hermione shook her head, interrupting herself. _Don't get off track. "Y.H." Initials were used in various places, the writer did not expect the notes to be read, but wanted them to be unclear just in case. Do I know anyone with the initials Y. H.?_

Hermione thought for a moment, but couldn't think of anyone, let alone someone who might be at Hogwarts and would be alerted by an owl. Still, she was feeling better, breaking things down, analysing, step-by-step. _This_ was how you solved problems involving _writing_ \- an elevated heart-rate was helpful for running away from wild animals (and even then, only if you didn't know better), not for thinking.

 _But...why would anyone be alerted by an owl, since they (somehow) know whom to bring replies to directly? Does someone at Hogwarts monitor owl traffic? Some administration staff who isn't a professor and isn't mentioned in Hogwarts, A History?_ She frowned, and considered the next sentence. _Is there a registry of owls in Hogwarts, who owns which? See if someone has recently bought an owl?_ Hermione made another brief note on a clean sheet, underneath where she'd already written " _knowledge unique to Beauxbatons library?_ " and _"Y.H.?"_

 _Changed,_ she thought, upon re-reading the next bit. _Something has changed, which is not like the writer would expect of "T.T."_ Again she couldn't think of anyone by those initials except Tina Turner, which seemed quite unlikely - unless she was secretly a witch? - and the only other thing that came to mind was "Triwizard Tournament", which also didn't seem to make any sense in context.

 _O. knows something, but what?_ Provided with the clues "single initial, one name or well-known" and "starts with O", Hermione's memory immediately answered, "Ollivander". The wandmaker had certainly seemed very mysterious and knowledgeable, so she supposed that might imply he knew things you wouldn't expect? Things about...whatever it was the writer was concerned about, but even _she_ isn't sure what those might be.

She read the next word, and once again her heart started racing. _No. Stop. It's just a word. It's not even a word that describes a concept I believe in at all._ But for all her mental insistence, her fear rose, and her gaze flicked along the paragraph, bouncing in a frenetic triangle between "O.", "Destiny" and "Obliviate". She closed her eyes again, but before she could try to even begin taking deep breaths, she felt a sudden dizziness, and then she _saw_.

 

> " _Hermione Granger," she said, after offering her hand politely. At her name, the man stiffened slightly in the act of shaking her hand. Huh?_
> 
> " _Just so," he whispered, in a strange echo of himself. For a moment he just stared at her, until Hermione began to shift uncomfortably, and he seemed to shake himself out of a daze. "Muggle-born, I see," he noted, glancing down at her clothes, "I suppose you've no hint of your ancestry...magical, that is?" Hermione shrugged. Is it just me, or..._
> 
> " _If anyone in our family has known about magic, they certainly never mentioned it to us - we were all quite surprised - though it sounds like they would've been_ _ **expected**_ _to keep it to themselves?" The old man nodded, then began to peruse the shelves, muttering to himself. Ollivander was acting peculiar - or more peculiar, rather - this isn't how I remember this happening. Have I already changed things somehow?_
> 
> " _No, no...no...I know it's here somewhere." He moved further into the shop and climbed most of the way up a ladder, craning his neck to examine more out-of-the-way boxes. "Have to try it of course, after so_ _ **long**_ _…ah." The old man stretched an arm up to extract a box from a shelf near the ceiling, then clambered back down to rejoin Hermione. The box was actually itself made of wood, carved with intricate vines. He slid back the lid and withdrew a delicate-looking wand of a pale tan wood. "Muggle-born...which hand do you write with?" he asked. He_ _ **knew**_ _which wand was hers, on the first try? And what was that odd wooden box it was in? This isn't right at all._
> 
> " _Right," said Hermione, raising that hand. Ollivander extended the wand to her, thick end first. It had been intricately carved, making it seem as if six vines had twined around each other to form the shaft. She took the wand gently, her fingertips nestling easily into the gaps in the carving, and at the man's urging motion, waved it through the air. Immediately the tip gave off white sparks. That part is familiar, at least..._
> 
> " _Now the left," he said, leaning forward slightly. Hermione obediently switched the wand to her left hand and waved it similarly. This time, a thin line of blue vapor trailed behind the wand's tip, swirling slightly in the air. Ollivander's eyes widened. "There it is, then," he whispered. Hermione gave the wandmaker a somewhat vexed look. That came from_ _ **me**_ _, not her! What in Merlin's name is going_ _ **on**_ _here? How can he possibly-_
> 
> " _Um. I have to ask, because you keep whispering like that, and you seemed to recognize my name...is there something unusual about me? Or this wand? It seems quite old, but it looked like you picked it out specifically, and Professor McGonagall said that buying a wand can sometimes take a long time, which - along with the old saying you mentioned - implies I might have to test a few out, like shoes, only this one does seem to have worked quite well on the first try, which means you_ _ **expected**_ _it would work for me in particular for some reason…" Well, look at you being all sharp on the uptake. You tell him, girl._
> 
> _Ollivander regarded her for a moment, clearly weighing his words, then nodded to himself, seeming to come to a decision, and shrugged._
> 
> "' _Unusual'? I couldn't say - we are each unique in our own way, are we not? But to be sure, you are meant for that wand...among other things. You have a_ _ **destiny**_ _, Hermione Granger. But I think that if you knew it in full, you might not necessarily fulfill it as naturally." His words dripped with meaning and portent, but also a sort of absent casualness. Now honestly, that's just over-the-top, even for-_
> 
> " _I_ _ **really**_ _need to know what all of that means, absolute top of the list, right now. And if this is just some sort of terribly elaborate sales pitch, I shall be_ _ **very**_ _cross and ask Professor McGonagall to help me buy a wand somewhere else," said the girl, crossing her arms and attempting to sound stern, though there was a note of pleading in her demand as well. Yes, what she said, doubled! The old wandmaker shook his head and withdrew a gnarled dark wand from his robes. Wait, what's he-_
> 
> " _I have little doubt you will learn...everything in Time, Miss Granger. But it will not have been now, nor from me," he intoned. Merlin, he's going to Obliviate you! Protego, dodge, do_ _ **something**_ _you little idiot! A bright flash issued from the tip of Ollivander's wand-_

Hermione found herself on the floor beside the chair, nearly hyperventilating - she'd apparently shoved herself away from the table to try to get away from the flash, but there was no flash, no Ollivander, she was just in the Library, libraries were _safe_ , libraries were where things _made sense_.

Were _supposed_ to make sense, anyway.

A trio of nearby Gryffindors were staring at her, but after a shared shrug, went back to their own studying. Hermione stood and straightened her robes, calmed her breathing, then deliberately sat back down.

 _What?_ she thought, somewhat desperately.

Some part of her that wasn't still spinning around dizzily hesitantly offered the opinion that she'd just _remembered_ something, and which the close of strongly implied the whole thing had been magically removed and replaced with something else. Which she _knew_ was possible, because there was a whole profession in the Ministry devoted to doing it to muggles. _Except...that's not quite right, is it? That is, that's obviously not how I originally - or still, come to think of it - remember things, but what just happened_ _ **now**_ _felt like...it wasn't happening to me, but I was watching...or watching someone_ _ **else**_ _watching, because someone was thinking things about what was happening and those weren't my thoughts, but…_

This line of "reasoning" crashed in a messy heap. For a moment, Hermione considered the possibility that she was, in fact, mentally unwell. If that was the case, she wasn't sure if there was anything useful she could do other than mention the possibility to someone qualified to diagnose such things, because if she _was_ actually having delusions, how could she trust any of her own conclusions about them? Aside from the panic, and the admitted fuzziness around certain memories, she didn't _feel_ like her thoughts weren't working right, but it's not as if she had anything else to compare them to.

She decided to keep turning herself over to Nurse Wainscott in mind as a fallback option, but explore other explanations for at least a _little_ while first. In that vein, one bit of the "memory" stuck out...the watcher's reaction to Hermione's wand producing a different effect when it was in her left hand...something like "that came from _me_ , not her". Which seemed to imply the watcher had been not just watching, but _present_... _in Hermione_ … She slowly turned her head to look at her main List, and her eyes caught on the shortest line. She looked back at the cryptic notes, and she finally recognized something she really ought to have earlier.

They were in her own handwriting.

Hermione went very still, and wished she was better at knowing what research to prioritize, though honestly she wasn't sure how she could've been without actually _knowing the future_ , and reading between the lines of some of the extra reading she'd bought, Divination in Magical Britain was viewed by serious people only slightly more favorably than it was by muggles. But there was no helping that now, so what should she do? She felt an urge to directly quote the relevant bit from the first Dirk Gently book - which had partially inspired her current theory - but she didn't trust herself not to flub it, and this really wasn't the time anyway, so she paraphrased.

"My mind is not just a thing my brain does," she whispered. "It is _who I am_. If you've some unfinished business or something that sharing my body can help with, I'm not necessarily opposed to that - though you might've _asked_ first. I don't know what you and Ollivander have going on between you - it didn't _seem_ like you were cooperating, exactly, but he apparently didn't erase _your_ memories, did he? But when a part of my mind is destroyed, a version of me is effectively killed, and all the thoughts that might have come from her. It's not murder, but it's a difference of degree, not kind. So whoever's possessing me, if you've any decency at all, I'll ask you kindly to _show yourself._ "

Hermione waited uneasily. Throughout this little speech Hermione had done her best to hold her voice steady - but there'd nevertheless been a bit of quaver - she still knew almost nothing about how ghosts really worked, and that uncertainty terrified her. Which maybe whatever was possessing her knew already, if it was in her head, but if it didn't there was no sense in making things easy for it.

For a moment, nothing happened.

The nothing continued in the next moment, and the moment after that, until it seemed clear that the dramatic appearance of a ghost was not in fact in the offing. It was certainly possible she'd been wrong about that, though the theory did seem to fit the evidence. The question was, could she risk doing some quick (if belated) research on ghosts to bolster that theory, or was this enough evidence that the situation was serious and she should go to an adult _immediately_?

The answer was often obvious when the question was asked the right way.

"Ok. I'll just have to get someone more knowledgeable about ghosts to help," she said, quietly. There was no particular reason to have said that aloud - she'd done it on impulse, as another experiment, but not particularly expecting any reaction.

At which point Hermione felt an immediate, irrational dread that if she told anyone, it would cause horrible, awful things to happen. She mentally planted her feet and clamped down on the reaction. Hermione was no stranger to occasional anxiety - thus having read up on it - she often analysed things to a degree that made her promote objectively unlikely scenarios to conscious consideration. But in all of those cases, the worries were irrational because the _chances_ of them happening were very low, _not_ because she had _no_ logical reason to worry at all. Yet this feeling had no chain of logic, no train of thought attached to it, it just _was_.

But the feeling had to come from _somewhere_ , and given she was already considering the existence of a separate...call it "mind"...inside her, Occam's razor suggested a single explanation was more likely (though a part of her felt dirty about invoking Occam's razor to argue that "a ghost did it").

"Is that you?" she whispered. "If it is, and you _can't_ show yourself...do something else. Have a happy feeling instead of being afraid, maybe?" She waited, but nothing happened. Maybe ghosts, being dead, just couldn't _be_ properly happy? Though the ones she'd seen so far seemed relatively genial, at least. "I'm sorry, but if you can't give me _actual reasons_ , I really _have_ to tell someone about this." Hermione stood up and began to gather up all her notes from the table.

The dread intensified, and it might have been her imagination, but perhaps mixed with a bit of frustration, now? Despite Hermione's determination to do the sensible thing, and increasing conviction that these feelings were not her own, her hands were shaking quite badly by the time she'd stowed everything away in her bag. Her rationalizing faculties instinctively began to look for ways to stop the unpleasant sensations, and unbidden, seductive and unverifiable scenarios started playing in her head.

Suppose the strange non-memory she'd experienced had really happened, and Ollivander had been _protecting_ her, because there really _was_ such a thing as "Destiny", and...there were people or creatures who could _read minds_ , and if they knew, she would be in danger. Or maybe she'd somehow unknowingly blundered into a Dark Curse when she'd been looking at books in Diagon Alley, and this feeling was her sole warning, and if she _did_ tell someone _they_ would be hurt, and it would all be Hermione's fault for _not reading enough first_? Or…

Even while her mind filled with one increasingly implausible justification for delay after another, she slowly, stubbornly, continued to make her way through the stacks toward the Library's exit. That's what being responsible _meant_ , you did what was right even if it was hard, or uncomfortable.

She felt a surge of frustration and grew dizzy, pausing to steady herself against a bookshelf. Her vision swam, and for a moment she was-

 

> _Hermione pulled up the covers of her new bed at the top of Ravenclaw Tower and started the relaxing routine that was the only thing that kept otherwise chronic insomnia at bay. Every night, as soon as her head hit the pillow, sleep always seemed to be the furthest thing from her mind, in favor of going over everything she'd learned and read that day. But she'd practiced structured relaxation as diligently as she approached anything else until it was second nature, and soon her eyelids were drooping…_

Hermione blinked. Another memory...but there wasn't anything different about that one, it was just as it had been the first night after arriving at Hogwarts, what did-

 

> _The letters of the CRT monitor grew blurry, and Hermione rubbed at her eyes automatically. She'd been taking notes from her Hogwarts books on the Amiga for ease of searching in the short term, though she knew already that she couldn't take it with her, more's the pity - she'd have to print everything out before she left. But at night she always stopped using the computer and went to bed at the very first sign of eye strain - she took her vision very seriously, because stressing her eyes to the point where she'd need glasses and make it harder to read for the rest of her life wasn't a good deal on balance no matter how tempting it was to read "just one more page"…_

It wasn't just dizziness now, her whole body felt heavy and weak and only a firm grip on the bookshelf kept her from dropping to the floor. "If you're trying to communicate, I don't understand," she murmured, surprised at how slurred her words sounded-

 

> _She was so hot, she wasn't under the covers, and her nightgown was soaked with sweat. But more than that, she was afraid, because she'd_ _**read** _ _about fevers and if they were high enough they could_ _**cook your brain** _ _and you might not think right afterward, and also you might die, but the first thing scared her more because if she couldn't think right, she just wouldn't be_ _**her** _ _, it'd be like someone else pretending, in her body, and mummy and dad would_ _**think** _ _it was her but be sad because she wasn't smart anymore..._
> 
> " _I know it's awful, sweetie, just try to close your eyes?" She felt a blissful coolness for a moment as mummy put a fresh wet washcloth over her forehead. "You just need to rest, sleep will help you get better." Mummy knew what to do, because even though she only fixed teeth and not whole people, she'd still gone to school for ages and knew practically everything, so Hermione closed her eyes and let mummy's soft words fill the rest of her head with a different kind of coolness, but just as nice as the washcloth…_

With a dull sense of alarm - the dullness of which was itself alarming - Hermione realized this wasn't an attempt at communication. It was the middle of the day and it was _putting her to sleep_. But she found she'd already sat down against the bookshelf and couldn't summon the strength to rise. She reached into her bag for her wand, but she knew you couldn't use an awakening spell on yourself...maybe she could make a loud noise and attract someone's attention. She tried to remember the wand gestures that accompanied _Sonorus_ , and closed her eyes for _just a moment_ to picture the illustrations in the book - and discovered, too late, that she'd just forfeited.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to torac for pointing out a word-drop mistake in Chapter 8, and feepingcreature, who introduced me to FF dot net's endearing abhorrence for links, even to itself, and RMcD94 for correcting my flub on "How to *Win* Friends and Influence People" and stringless for another typo. Apologies again to Enoket, I've updated the author's note at the bottom of Chapter 5 (where I'd said I'd reveal it in Chapter 6) so people aren't expecting the answer to the riddle right away.
> 
> Also, *sincere* apologies for my lack of updates for so long. Life gets in the way and all that, but I *swear* I'll keep at this doggedly until it's at least one complete-ish story, I just can't guarantee a particular schedule. Thanks to everyone who has continued to offer encouraging reviews and PM's in the interim, it really keeps my spirits up.
> 
> Edit: Thanks to ZeroNihilist for the Brit-pick (missed a "mommy") and who noted that only the movies were sexist/stereotyping, and in canon Beauxbatons is not an all-girls' school!


	13. "...a Poor Sort of Memory..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this entire chapter one way, set it aside, wrote it again in an entirely different plot direction, then once more in a third. This is the second, and best (I think). I don't know if this is how authors normally work, but throwing away writing is *painful*. Still, it's hard to argue with the results (unless this chapter is rubbish, I suppose, then it's easy).
> 
> Edit: Thanks to /u/monstrousbird from /r/rational for the Britpick on "bleachers"!

o-o-o-o-o

Hermione did not wake, per se - she simply found herself to be not asleep. She was no longer in the Library… In point of fact, for a moment she wasn't certain _where_ she was, so unfamiliar was the scene, though the general architectural style suggested she was somewhere in Hogwarts. Many people moved about, a few with urgent speed, but most slowly, bearing obvious injuries or a deep weight of sorrow. No one paid any attention to her whatsoever. It was the ceiling that made her realize this was the Great Hall, its powerful enchantment showing the dark, star-filled sky beyond, streaked with smoke and flashes of strange magical after-effects.

But the tables and seats were all gone, save a couple turned onto their sides as makeshift barricades. Many of the people present stood or knelt over wounded, or even-

Hermione tried to grasp what she was seeing. One of the Weasley Twins was lying terribly still, and beside him, her face and hair unmistakeable, Tonks, the Hufflepuff from the train. Her unmoving hand was clasped in the hand of an unfamiliar man, equally lifeless. What she could only presume was the rest of the Weasley family was crying over the dead boy - except he wasn't a boy… Even prone, it was obvious the Twin - and it bothered Hermione a great deal that she wasn't sure which one - was even taller than she remembered, sturdier...adult. Tonks too, for that matter, though it was less obvious from the position of her...her b-

Hermione started to walk closer, solemn but desperate to understand, but stopped in her tracks. Another young brunette woman - who had been embracing one of the Weasleys - had turned her head slightly to face Hermione. For a bizarre moment, she thought it was her mother. But she was too young, and there were differences here and there. In fact, now that she thought about it, the woman actually looked more like-

The Great Hall went dark and swimmy.

o-o-o

She was in a strangely decorated living room, cramped and a little cluttered - from the slightly askew style, she presumed it was a Wizarding home, but very comfortable, for all that. There were a bunch of adults, and young adults, standing in a rough circle, each holding aloft a small glass of liquid, all swirls of rich amber and orange.

"Mad-Eye," said a flame-haired man, and everyone else repeated it. Including _both_ Weasley Twins, and Tonks, looking very much alive but distraught, and from the scar and glasses what was clearly an older and much more put-together Harry Potter, along with an equally older but still not-terribly-put-together-looking Ron, and that same woman who she was almost _certain_ was-

"Mad-Eye," added the Groundskeeper, Mr. Hagrid, with a maudlin hiccough. The room went dark and swimmy.

o-o-o

She was outdoors, near a small cottage. There were people standing near an oddly tiny grave. She was just close enough to the edge to make out the caricatured features of a house-elf, a woolen hat crammed onto his head. The strange older Harry and Ron were there - Harry looking devastated, Ron looking awkward in bare feet. His arm was around a brunette in a dressing gown, looking an absolute mess, her hair everywhere, her eyes puffy and reddened from tears, her face terribly pale. There was also a young blonde woman in a coat, looking a little disheveled, another thin blonde woman in an apron who was somehow almost _offensively_ pretty, and the orange-haired man who'd started the toast in the previous...whatever _was_ going on-

"Good-bye, Dobby", said Harry, terribly quietly.

The unnamed-but-probably-Weasley gave a solemn wave of his wand and a nearby pile of earth gracefully filled the grave, piling up to slightly above the level of the ground, and the scene went dark and swimmy.

o-o-o

She was in her parents' living room. They were sitting beside each other on the sofa, and staring almost directly at her, but they didn't seem to see her, or indeed anything.

"Mum? Dad?" Hermione, alarmed, waved a hand before their eyes, even leaned forward and poked her mother's knee, but there was no response whatsoever. It was quiet enough in the room that she could hear their breathing, and nothing else. But something made her turn her head, and in the doorway to the kitchen, out of their line of sight, the woman from the Great Hall, who kept drawing Hermione's attention, was _casting spells_ on them, and she was using Hermione's wand or one that looked unreasonably like it, which pretty much clinched her impossible suspicions if she was willing to accept them.

The woman wasn't saying anything aloud, just making gesture after gesture, complicated swoops and curls and nested twists that Hermione could barely follow, let alone identify. But she finished with a very simple gesture, one Hermione _did_ recognize, and a single word, rough with emotion but precisely enunciated.

" _Obliviate_."

Hermione lunged forward to try to shield her parents, but the spell somehow ignored her, and the room went dark and swimmy.

o-o-o

She was in a room she didn't recognize, but it was very finely appointed in a Wizarding way, all crystal and mahogany and tapestries. There were various people standing about - a hunched little man with a silver hand, a much taller man wearing a ragged fur coat who had strangely stretched - almost bestial - features. A trio of mutually light-haired people stood close to each other, a man and a woman and an older boy, who - despite his inexplicable age - was quite recognizably Draco Malfoy...looking not appalled, exactly, but neither entirely sanguine.

But all eyes in the room, Hermione's included, were focused on the last two people present. A woman in a tattered black dress, somehow both beautiful and sickly at the same time, her hair black and wild, eyes crazed and fixed with her wand towards the same young woman from the Great Hall, dirty and disheveled in casual clothes, her face terribly pale and streaked with tears.

"What else did you take, what else? ANSWER ME! _CRUCIO!_ " shrieked the dark-haired witch, and the younger woman writhed under the Unforgivable Curse, releasing a horrible extended scream, which broke only just long enough to draw enough breath to begin the scream anew.

Hermione couldn't bear it and turned away, covering her ears with her hands, and she could _still_ hear it. But mercifully, after a moment, the screaming - _her_ screaming - faded away as the room went dark and swimmy.

o-o-o

She was on the grounds of Hogwarts, near the Great Lake, beside a white marble table. Dozens, hundreds of chairs faced it, in neat rows. So many people, many she didn't recognize, but a few she did. All the school staff, a great many students, the grown versions of which she was starting to find familiar, including herself. Her other-self's face was streaked with silent tears quite different from the ones she'd just seen. There were _centaurs_ present, and Mr. Hagrid was at the back, next to a _giant_ , and Hermione wondered what _that_ was about, but at the same time she knew she was deliberately focusing on irrelevant details, the implications of the sombre mood and arrangements were obvious even without the benefit of her earlier...whatever-they-were's…

Hermione forced herself to look at the table, and saw the Headmaster's body. Even as shock struck deeply into her, she wondered how it could have happened - he wasn't that old by Wizarding standards and he was widely acknowledged as the most talented wizard in Britain, if not the world. As she watched, uncomprehendingly, the table erupted in shockingly intense white flames, though even as close as Hermione stood, they seemingly gave off no heat, and there were screams of startlement from within the attending crowd. The blinding fire rose higher and higher, until there was no sign of the body, or indeed the table. But as quickly as they'd started, the flames vanished, and only a white marble tomb was left behind.

The gathering went dark and swimmy.

o-o-o

She was on a small grassy clearing, at the edge of what seemed to be a large hedge maze. Facing it were a large set of seats set in stands, packed full of people. Most were too far away to make out, though she could vaguely recognize herself, sitting next to Ron.

Directly before her was Harry Potter, still looking older than he ought to, but not nearly so much as before. He was clutching a shining trophy of some sort in one hand, while his other was latched firmly around another boy she didn't recognize, perhaps a couple years older than Harry - this Harry, rather.

Harry looked dazed and pale, his left leg was bleeding badly, and his right arm nearly as much. The other boy bore various small injuries, but his eyes stared sightlessly. The Headmaster was leaning over them, alive, obviously, but his face ashen.

Harry released the trophy and grabbed Professor Dumbledore's wrist, not releasing the other boy's body. He still seemed dazed, but he pulled his face close to the Headmaster's and whispered with a fearful intensity.

"He's back. He's back. Voldemort."

_Everything_ went dark and swimmy.

o-o-o

She was in the hospital wing. She was lying on the floor, facing the ceiling, and a young woman in healer's robes was leaning over her with a concerned expression, her wand out. Nurse Wainscott?

" _Mobilicorpus_ ," said the nurse, and Hermione felt her body grow light and drift up from where she'd apparently collapsed to the floor. She glided easily over to one of the beds and drifted gently down upon it.

Hermione, fearing the worst, looked around anxiously to discover who was dead _now_. But the other beds were empty of bodies, living or otherwise, there was no one else here other than the healer.

"Wait," she murmured. "Something is...you can see me...you can hear me?" Madam Wainscott nodded, her expression uncertain but reassuring.

"Yes, just relax, take slow, deep breaths. You apparently got here just in time. I should've been faster to get you into a bed, but...does anything hurt, did you hit your head when you fell? _Revelo volnus._ " This last was murmured as she waved her wand over Hermione's body from head to toes. Hermione didn't _feel_ any pain, though her head felt a bit foggy, as if she'd just woken up from an uneasy sleep. Sleep.

"Something put me to sleep," Hermione said, suddenly. "Something possessing me, a ghost, maybe? But then I saw...I don't know what...visions of horrible things...I think of the future. People dying, maybe _me_ dying...You-Know-Who coming back...and I was always there... _older_ me, I mean..." Her voice dropped a bit as she continued, mostly to herself, "I really ought to have read more about Divination, but most of the books implied it was extremely unreliable at best…" Madam Wainscott nodded, as if what Hermione had said were the most normal thing in the world.

"Yes. None of it was real, only a nightmare, best just not to think about it at all…" she said, in a tone that Hermione had come to recognize from adults, one which she - ever so slightly - loathed. She tried to sit up angrily in the bed, but light pressure from the nurse's hand against her shoulder was sufficient to make this impossible - she must still be a little weak, shaking off the sleep.

"No. I'm not _sick_ , this is _important_ ," she insisted, trying to make her voice stern in lieu of whatever confidence came from being upright. "Something is happening to me, and horrible things are _going_ to happen...it's not a hallucination, it's…" she trailed off for a moment, realizing she still wasn't entirely _sure_ it wasn't a hallucination. What if she _did_ have a brain tumor or something? "There's a note, in my bag, upside down...it says things…" Though Hermione once again remembered that the cryptic notes had been in her own handwriting, and wouldn't really constitute evidence of anything one way or another - even to herself, if she were honest about it.

"Do you...what is the last thing you remember?" asked the nurse, looking...concerned, but not exactly alarmed.

"I'd been in the Library, studying, then I saw these strange notes appear - or _re_ -appear, I think - on the bottom of the parchment, and I was trying to understand them and I had some sort of...memory isn't exactly right, but I don't know what to call it, and I thought I might be possessed and I should tell an adult, but then it put me to sleep on my way out of the Library. I saw a bunch of horrible things, mostly people being dead, and then I woke up here." Madam Wainscott's eyebrows rose, but she still didn't look as alarmed as Hermione thought she ought to. Come to think of it, Hermione herself no longer felt that strange sense of alarm that had affected her so strongly in the Library when she'd announced her intention to tell someone.

"You don't remember hearing a spell cast on you, or walking here, or speaking with me?" Hermione blinked.

"I...no. What?" The nurse turned a bit, examining the labels on a variety of potion bottles on a rack against the wall as she spoke.

"You walked in just a few minutes ago. You said that you'd heard someone - you didn't see who - cast a spell on you…' _Confundo Oraculum Maximo'_ , and you weren't sure what it had done but your head 'felt peculiar', so you came here, and explained, and then you collapsed before I could get you into a bed."

" _I_ said…? But...that's not right…"

"' _Confundo Oraculum_ ' is a nasty variation on the Confundus Charm, called the 'Seer's Hex'," explained Madam Wainscott as she turned back to Hermione, a bottle in her off hand. "It makes you _convinced_ you can see the future, you see, as well as fogging your thoughts and memories around to prompt you to see things you want, or more often, fear. Normally it the certainty fades away of its own accord in an hour or two, along with most of the 'visions'. But that _Maximo_ makes it something quite beyond that, I don't even know the name and I...ah...don't know the proper countercurse, assuming, hopefully, there _is_ one...I'll have to do some reading and consult the Professors." The young woman was clearly trying to portray confidence, but she couldn't hide a bit of nervousness. "Honestly, I'd just use a Memory Charm, but-"

" _No!_ " shouted Hermione, and this time she was able to push herself up, sliding back in the bed away from the nurse. She made a calming motion, which, given it was with her wand hand, did _not_ reassure Hermione in the slightest.

"Easy, Miss Granger, easy. I was just saying I _can't_ Obliviate you because that sort of magic doesn't interact well - or safely - with Confunding effects. And the _effects_ are lasting, but the spell itself isn't sustained, so there's no point in a _Finite_. If we can't find a specific countercurse, well, you may just have to do your best to put all this out of your mind."

Hermione stared at her as if she were insane, and immediately recognized the irony in that thought. Either way, getting angrier and pointing out how _impossible_ a task she'd casually suggested probably wouldn't help. And she still wasn't sure what to think...if she _was_ possessed, it actually sounded like a rather clever story to discredit anything she might say afterward - the only confusing flaw in that was that it had _discouraged_ the nurse from just making her forget the whole thing. On the other hand, if schizophrenia or something _was_ the problem, it was a way for the illness to conceal itself, by steering her away from proper care, and preventing her aberrant thoughts from simply being removed. It still seemed implausible that she could be having these sorts of rational thoughts about it if she _were_ mentally unwell, but, again, it's not as if she really knew what it would feel like from the inside.

"All right," she began, trying to make her voice calm. " _Is_ there some way you could verify that I'm not possessed by a ghost or something? Just...you know...for my peace of mind?" Madam Wainscott frowned, then tucked the potion bottle away in a pocket of her apron and moved a few beds down to crouch by a short two-level bookshelf, running her finger over the spines. As she did so, Hermione opened her bag - its strap still over her shoulder - and began pulling out her notes. Not furtively, but matter-of-factly, as if it should be of no concern to anyone, particularly a nurse. The woman did glance at her, but only briefly before continuing to peruse the books.

Hermione flipped through the thick sheaf of pages quickly, looking for the tell-tale sign of mutually inverted sections of handwriting, but didn't see the page. She frowned and went back through more slowly, then stopped. She'd found the page, all right, but it held _only_ her notes on potential library magic, and there was no sign of the mysterious additional lines. _Option A - that never happened, and I just imagined it, equal evidence of mental illness or an oddly specific and aggressive Confundus. Option B - something is possessing me, and after putting me to sleep, it just used a spell to wipe those lines off the page._ Hermione scowled and shoved the notes back into her bag, with slightly more force than was strictly necessary.

Nurse Wainscott returned, holding a pair of books. She'd clearly noticed Hermione putting her papers away, but chose not to remark upon it, about which Hermione was both grateful and slightly irritated. Instead, the woman set the books down, holding one open to a page marked with a thin blue ribbon, and began casting a series of spells from them over Hermione, many which included the words _spiritus_ or _effigia_ , and once, _usurpator._ As the nurse flipped from page to page, switching books halfway through, Hermione tried to memorize each spell as best she could, but some of the gestures were not ones she recognized at all, and a couple spells had been cast non-verbally. Though at least one of the gestures seemed familiar from the extended prelude to the spell her older self had...would?...might?...cast on her parents. Was that evidence of anything, that she'd seen an apparently real spell element she had no way of knowing?

_Maybe...but maybe a sufficiently strong Confundus can actually impart some information that the caster knows and the victim doesn't, and it sounds like a strong caster would've been required. But why would an upper-year student do such a thing to me anyway?_ Bullying - her books had said - was a complex dance of status and dominance, and tended to operate within narrow age ranges. A child might well torment significantly younger children out of pure sadism, but that was _supposedly_ rare. Much more often victims would be children sufficiently younger or weaker than the the bully to be vulnerable, but still close enough to their age that the bully wouldn't lose status among their own peers by attacking _too_ weak an opponent.

"Well, after all that, I'm quite positive there's nothing in your head that didn't originate from your own mind," said Madam Wainscott suddenly, breaking Hermione's gloomy train of thought. "Though that does include whatever your mind invented based on the Confundus, of course." She put her hand on Hermione's shoulder sympathetically. "I hope that does make you feel a little better?" Hermione considered the question, and upon reflection, it didn't. At all.

"I appreciate you checking for me," said the Ravenclaw, with carefully true wording. "So...what now? May I go...at least until you find a countercurse, I suppose?" The nurse shook her head, once again withdrawing the potion she'd held before.

"It's clear you're still suffering secondary ill effects from such a strong hex, so I'd prefer you got more rest. And it may help in another way - I have a potion to allow dreamless sleep. It should ensure you get good quality sleep, but it should also make your memories of the hex less distinct, and help you put them aside?" Hermione was a bit surprised to hear that witches apparently knew about memory consolidation during REM sleep, but she supposed the proper magic ought to be able to tell you as much or more about what was happening in someone's head as an EEG or MRI machine. It's not as if _science_ had any reliable ways of making people forget things, and magic apparently had _several_.

"Okay," Hermione said, with a slight sigh.

"I'll make sure you're excused from classes for the rest of the day-"

"I don't have any left today," interrupted Hermione.

"Oh, well, good. But I'll still inform your Professors and the Headmaster of the incident, so they can be properly accommodating if you have any...er...lingering issues."

"That's...really not necessary," Hermione objected, warily. _If she does_ _ **that**_ _, then effectively everyone I might go to will have a plausible excuse to not believe a single thing I say about any of this…_

"It's no trouble, and it's school policy anyway - I _must_. I'm sure they will want to go to some lengths to discover who hexed you in any case, it's a bit beyond the normal sort of student shenanigans." Hermione nodded. It wasn't as if she could stop her. "I'll fetch you a set of pyjamas and let you change so you're more comfortable, and then you can take the potion - you should sleep clear through to tomorrow morning." Nurse Wainscott did as she'd said, altering the apparently generic pyjamas with a few quick spells so they properly fit Hermione, then pulling the curtains around her bed and withdrawing to let her change.

Hermione made enough of a production out of removing her robes to hopefully mask the sound of also fetching a quill, blank parchment and her wand from her bag. A general Silencing Charm was far beyond her, but she leveled her wand at the quill and parchment in turn, adding a whispered _Quietus_ for each, then gingerly tested one against the other, and nodded in satisfaction as the normally quiet scratch was nearly inaudible.

Hermione quickly began to transcribe everything she could remember about everything that had happened starting with the Library - including as faithful a reproduction as she could of the missing notes - alternating hands so she could awkwardly continue to undress and change while she did so. When she'd finished - after going back and adding a quick note at the top - she took up her wand again and whispered _Impervius_ at each page, folded them in half, then again firmly crosswise. She hesitated for a moment, second guessing herself, but then followed through with her hopefully-not-mad plan. She cast one final spell at the bundle, then flung the tight square of parchment directly out of the partially open window behind the bed.

Immediately, the "sourceless" irrational panic from the Library flooded back into her, and her hands shook as she put everything back into her bag and then climbed into the hospital bed. But even as her nerves betrayed her, she steadfastly pushed them down and essayed a wavering smile, equal parts uncertainty and grim determination. The return of the feeling was a tiny piece of evidence, and Hermione was _choosing_ to interpret it as progress, rather than mental illness. If she wasn't sane, well, this shouldn't do any harm. If she _was_...

"Nurse Wainscott? I'm ready for the potion now," she said, loudly. But before the woman had reached the curtain around Hermione's bed, she lowered her voice and in an almost inaudibly soft whisper - yet somehow simultaneously full of iron - added two more words.

"Your move."


	14. Perspective

Hermione, as she slowly walked to the Great Hall for breakfast Thursday morning, tried to determine what, if anything, she'd learned. She paid a bare minimum of attention to navigating - it had only been three days, but even first-years of other Houses had learned the onus of avoiding collisions with students in blue-trimmed robes and an absent expression was on _them_.

When she had woken up in the hospital wing, she'd been somewhat surprised to discover that she had no trouble remembering everything from yesterday, the strange notes, the "memory" of Ollivander's, the disturbing glimpses "of the future". Or at least, she _thought_ she had no trouble - she'd need to double-check her hurried notes to be sure. She'd tossed them out of the window in the hopes that her "uninvited guest" wouldn't be able to get to them under the watchful eye of Madam Wainscott. But the fact that she even remembered the notes existed in the first place suggested she hadn't been Obliviated. The potion, however, seemed to have been effective, as she remembered no dreams or additional "glimpses" (she refused to call them "visions", even to herself).

As soon as she'd dressed - her clothes and robes had been laundered and neatly folded, she'd discovered - she'd immediately gone out onto the grounds to check outside the window, but that part of her plan had worked as well - the notes were gone. Before tossing them out the window, aside from the Imperviuses in case of rain, she'd added a Reminder Charm in the hopes that the voice would attract the attention of someone outside, so if she _had_ been Obliviated, there'd at least be someone who _might_ be able to do something - the short personal note she'd added at the top had urged whoever found them to be cautious, to make a copy and give it to _someone else_ before even attempting to talk to Hermione about it, and when they did to be subtle - if she seemed not to remember at all, they were to take her notes immediately to a Professor.

Of course, if that did happen, they might just discount it because of the hex misinformation, but she'd drawn specific attention in the notes to the Ollivander incident, which was _past_ , rather than future, and wasn't as well-explained by some Cassandra-esque Confunding. They were, in any case, the best precautions she'd been able to come up with in the time she'd had. No one had attempted to contact her yet, even subtly, but that was equally plausible if whoever had found the notes _was_ being cautious, or if they'd simply ignored or discarded them.

All this implied her guest had been either unable or unwilling to Obliviate her while she slept. Perhaps the potion had prevented her body from being borrowed, or Nurse Wainscott was too vigilant to risk it, or Hermione's precaution with the notes made Obliviating her too likely to be discovered, or it simply did not suit their plans, whatever they were.

It seemed, from a collection of things, that her guest had _some_ concern for Hermione's welfare. Thinking back over the cryptic notes in her handwriting in that light, Hermione began to see a theory that might fit, though it was not one she enjoyed at all. Divination was one thing, but _this_ …

The tenuous chain of reasoning started with a line that had gone something like, "I can feel myself slipping. It's hard to think clearly, even when she's asleep, without risking pushing Y.H. out completely." From the Library incident (and the existence of the notes in the first place), it appeared that Hermione's guest had more agency when Hermione was sleeping...which made a kind of sense, she supposed, if they were somehow sharing the same brain. Ignoring for the moment how impossible _that_ was. But that made it likely the "she" in that line was Hermione herself. And though the notion gave her a shiver of dread to contemplate, the balance could be inferred that Y.H. was _also_ her, and there wasn't enough _room_ in her brain for both of them...and there was an ongoing risk that one or the other would be "pushed out".

But the context _also_ implied that her guest _didn't want that_. That, along with other bits of the notes - expressing regret about Madam Pomfrey, talking about "saving people" - suggested rather strongly that her guest had morals at least similar to Hermione's, even if they weren't being terribly _nice_ about trying to follow them.

Next there was the "commentary" on Hermione's "memory" of Ollivander's. It was a lot harder to remember the exact wording, as it hadn't been visual or even verbal, more like a memory of _thinking_. But it, too, implied that her guest had some concern for Hermione's welfare, hadn't _wanted_ her to be Obliviated. And also that her guest, even then, was thinking in terms of _changes_ and _remembering_.

Then there were the "glimpses", of apparent futures, the only common elements being something extremely unpleasant, and that they all featured an older version of herself. But if they _hadn't_ come from some weird Confundus, where else could they have, other than her guest? Again, if they were sharing the same brain, even if direct communication might not be possible, it didn't seem implausible that there might be some "leakage" in either direction.

All of which added up to a conclusion that, even tenuous as it was, Hermione would've called _obvious_ , if it hadn't been so blatantly impossible. There had been nothing in her reading that suggested such a thing was magically plausible. But, aside from insanity, it was the only solution that seemed to fit. Even Madam Wainscott's attempts to detect Hermione's guest fit - she'd said, "there's nothing in your head that didn't originate from _your own mind_ ", and Hermione stressed the last bit in her head as she recalled it. If she wasn't Confunded, how could her mind be her own, and yet not, at the same time?

Her guest was _herself_. But a _later_ version, "Older Hermione". And from her perspective, Hermione would of course be "Younger Hermione"...Y.H.

Which, if she accepted the impossible theory as true for the moment, meant Hermione had to reconsider all of her decisions in light of the fact that an older, more experienced version of _herself_ thought it was for the best that Hermione didn't tell _anyone_ about any of this, even very experienced, responsible Professors. And then Hermione had _written everything down_ and tossed it _out a window_ in the _specific hope_ that a _random person_ would pick it up and read it.

The term "embarrassment" didn't really cover it.

The only things keeping her from falling into an oscillating spiral of self-beratement and gibbering panic were that she wasn't _sure_ she was right about this, and even if she was, her guest didn't seem to _know_ what was going to happen, she just _expected_ it to be dangerous, bad, or both. But even the latter was in the context that O.H. seemed surprised about what _specifically_ had happened, but _not_ about the fact that it involved some form of _time travel_.

Hermione was broken from her introspection not by the sound of breakfast in the Great Hall, which she'd anticipated, but by the _change_ in the sound as she entered, not dropping in volume exactly, but lowering in tone. She looked up, and saw that at least a third of the students were _looking at her_ , not just a casual glance at someone entering, but _watching_ , while they talked to adjacent students.

Even while her heart fluttered from the unwanted attention and whatever it implied, Hermione steadfastly ignored it and walked directly to an open seat at the Ravenclaw table. She could just immediately ask what all this was about, but this _was_ the _Ravenclaw_ table, which meant all she had to do was count to-

"So what was the-"

"Who actually-"

"Do you remember-"

Hermione couldn't properly make out all the words as several of her housemates began asking different questions simultaneously, before her mental count had even reached "one". She held up one hand peremptorily and used the other to select a croissant and a couple other bland items she thought her churning stomach could tolerate.

"One at a time, please," she said. "Mandy?" she prompted, nodding at one of her interrogators.

"Do you have any idea who hexed you?" the girl asked, a little breathlessly. Hermione considered her answer, but decided to leave things as they were for the moment.

"No. I don't even remember it happening." It was technically true, anyway. Hermione picked up an unused glass and gestured it towards Anthony to go next, then began to pour herself some water. He paused for a moment, probably mentally adjusting to the new information that Hermione didn't remember it happening, which rather limited the scope of useful questions.

"The Nurse let you go, so you must be okay now, but you were in the _hospital wing_ , so it had to be _bad_...what _was_ it exactly?" Hermione, again, wasn't sure how to answer that.

"Why don't you tell me everything you - and everyone, apparently - _does_ know about this, and also how you know it, and then I'll be better able to fill in the blanks?" ' _Able to' doesn't_ _ **technically**_ _mean 'willing',_ she thought, and suddenly recalled Tonks' grinning face on the Hogwarts Express. But before she could smile, the memory was just as quickly replaced by an image of the Hufflepuff's body, ashen and still, and Hermione's mouth twisted instead, in synchrony with her stomach. Anthony hesitated, perhaps taken aback by her expression, but Marietta, a few places further down, stepped in efficiently.

"Professor Dumbledore made an announcement at dinner last night. He said that a first-year had apparently been the victim of a _very powerful_ hex, and that while the hex was not, strictly speaking, _Dark_ , ah, 'such an egregious and inappropriate misuse of magic will not be tolerated' - he can look quite stern if he wants to, you know. Then he said the Professors would be making _pointed_ inquiries, but if the 'offending party' chose to come forward privately, before they were identified, it would weigh in their favor..." Hermione was gratified to learn that the staff would take _some_ infractions seriously, though she felt bad about Professors possibly wasting their time searching for a culprit that did not exist.

"That was about it," Marietta continued. "He didn't say _who_ had been hexed, but there were only a few people missing from dinner, and the only one who didn't turn up after was _you_ , so Q.E.D."

"Not really," objected Penelope Clearwater faintly, from three times further down the table. "There's nothing that says even a powerful hex _had_ to cause an overnight stay in the hospital wing - the victim might've already recovered and actually _been_ at dinner." That end of the table devolved into a heated debate on induction vs. deduction, quickly moving rather beyond the immediate matter at hand. All the first-years still waited expectantly for Hermione to elaborate.

She chewed slowly to give herself more time while she thought. Hermione didn't _want_ to lie, or even withhold information, particularly after (mostly) resolving the whole Transfiguration secret-keeping drama. And if it had been someone at the Ravenclaw table who'd found her notes, they'd _know_ she wasn't being honest. But if her guest's apparent concerns were _valid_ , she might not be doing anyone who heard any favours, depending of course on what exactly the problems with time travel _were_.

"I was in the Library, and I felt strangely tired, and the next time I was awake I was in the hospital wing. I don't remember anyone hexing me, but Nurse Wainscott believes a hex made me confused, and also see things that weren't true. But before you ask, no, I'm not going to say what I saw, because if they're not true they don't matter, and she _specifically_ said I shouldn't even _think_ about them." All true, and yet so misleading and incomplete that Hermione felt dirty, like she'd _cheated on an exam_ , or something equally unthinkable. Still, even if it likely hadn't really satisfied anyone's curiosity, it seemed to have forestalled further questions on the topic - everyone went back to eating and random conversation. With one exception.

"All this is impressively distracting, but don't think we won't remember tae ask Professor McGonagall in class this afternoon about what ye _claimed_ ," said Morag, quietly. For what seemed like the dozenth time, Hermione wondered why the other girl seemed so eager to challenge her at every opportunity. She considered just _asking_ , but decided to wait - it didn't seem likely to help the situation while Morag still thought she had a valid grievance, and the next Transfiguration class _would_ finally clear that up at least. In the end, she just sighed, and nodded.

Morag nodded as well, with a grimly satisfied smile.

o-o-o

All the first-years had a free period Thursday after breakfast, and Ravenclaws the period before lunch as well. Most wandered away from the Great Hall towards their respective common rooms, or just off to explore the castle a bit more. A few headed towards the Library to actually study, or finish up any coursework - most students and even Professors still called it 'homework' at Hogwarts, even though no one went _home_ to do it, excepting holidays.

Hermione was left trying to figure out a good way of communicating with her guest. Obviously she was able to write - and even speak, based on what Nurse Wainscott had said - while Hermione was asleep. So simple parchment, or alternating Reminder Charms if they wanted to be careful and avoid leaving evidence, would seem to suit. But her older self had to know that too, and she _hadn't_ communicated, or at least not deliberately. Maybe now that Hermione had learned so much anyway, things would be different? But even if it were, it would be like having a pen-pal, only exchanging one "letter" each night, which wasn't very efficient, and her guest's notes had implied their time 'together' might be short, one way or another.

She knew from very recent personal experience that magical sleep was possible in at least two different forms - if she could find one that was reliably of _short_ duration, they might be able to have a reasonably efficient conversation. Assuming, again, that her guest was _willing_ now, when she hadn't been before…

Hermione made her way back to the hospital wing. When she arrived, she found the nurse dictating inventory, to a quill that was apparently both Self-Inking _and_ Self-Writing, as it was dancing across a nearby scroll in response to her words.

"Madam Wainscott?" Hermione asked hesitantly.

"Miss Granger, I didn't expect you back so soon, are you- no, cancel, cancel!" Her concerned greeting to Hermione was cut off as she realized her quill was continuing to transcribe, and turned to address it instead, until it stopped. "Sorry, these things are never as smart as you'd like them to be, are they? Are you feeling any additional ill effects, I was going to ask?" Hermione shook her head.

"No, my stomach was a bit upset at breakfast, but I think that's to be expected with all that's been going on. And I should thank you again for the potion, I think that's the best night's sleep I've had since school started. In fact, that is actually why I came." The Matron (or perhaps _Acting_ Matron? The Headmaster had said she was taking over Madam Pomfrey's _duties_ , but not specifically her title...) gave a little frown.

"I'm sorry, but the potion I administered yesterday is to be used sparingly, for emergencies only. It isn't safe for repeated use." Hermione's eyebrows rose.

"Oh? I still haven't had Potions yet, but I hadn't read anything about cumulative toxicity…" The nurse blinked.

"It's not that...it's that, well, whether you remember them upon waking or not, dreams are _necessary_ for healthy sleep. A sustained lack of dreams can cause poor health, or even forms of madness, eventually."

"Oh, right, I actually knew that, it just hadn't occurred to me." Now it was Madam Wainscott's turn to raise her eyebrows. "I read it in a muggle book - they actually know a fair bit about biology and medicine...they rather _have to_ , since they don't have magic," Hermione explained, somewhat pointedly. The comment didn't seem to make the woman less skeptical. "But _anyway_ , so it's not magical sleep itself that's dangerous, it's just _dreamless_ sleep? Are there other convenient ways of promoting normal sleep, or even causing a quick nap? I _do_ have diagnosed insomnia, I could try to get my parents to owl back a note from my doctor, I suppose, if you need some sort of verification…"

"Oh, you poor child, on top of everything? Well, there are lesser sleeping draughts, and a variety of Charms, of course, though those are probably a bit beyond what a first year can manage. I suppose I could brew up a small supply of Liquid Sheep for you, though you'd need to follow my dosing instructions _precisely_ \- it wouldn't do to have you waking up in the middle of the night, _or_ sleeping straight through to Christmas. Come back either right after dinner, or after tonight's...gathering. I'll have some ready for you by then." Hermione felt a bit awful about the nurse's obvious compassion, given that she was misrepresenting herself. And also that the woman was expected to just carry on with her work, even with Madam Pomfrey's memorial tonight - Hermione assumed they'd been reasonably close, working together and all. But as far as sleep aids went, she _did_ have diagnosed insomnia, so it wasn't _exactly_ a lie, she just wasn't _mentioning_ that she explicitly planned on subverting the dosing instructions for her own purposes.

"Thank you," she said, sincerely, but not nodding, since that _technically_ might've counted as promising to follow the dosing properly. _"...any means to achieve their ends…"_ came, unbidden, an echo of the Sorting Hat's song through her head. _Shut up. That whole 'technically' thing came from a_ _ **Hufflepuff**_ _, you know, so you can take your weird anti-Slytherin propaganda and foist it on someone else. And besides, this is extremely important._ Hermione didn't actually think she was having a conversation with the Sorting Hat, though for a disturbing moment, it occurred to Hermione to wonder if the demonstrably telepathic artifact actually _could_ use that ability at a distance? But after a tense moment of hesitation, no further mental intrusions presented themselves, exogenous or otherwise.

"I'll see you tonight, then," Hermione said quickly, after realizing she'd just been standing there and Madam Wainscott was starting to look at her oddly. She hurried off towards the Library.

o-o-o

Several hours later, Hermione's stomach felt no better than it had at breakfast as she quickly made her way to the Defence classroom. She'd had to add Time Travel (and Prophecy, just in case) and Sleep Charms, and Possession to the top of her List, and some of what she'd managed to learn had been _exceedingly_ disquieting.

Prophecy, it seemed, was almost exclusively the province of Seers, who were apparently _naturally_ gifted with their abilities (rather than as the result of any kind of dedicated study, which vaguely offended Hermione) via no obvious cause, though heredity was believed partially responsible. But it also seemed clear that a Seer never seemed to remember their own Prophecies, at least not true ones - they were more of a _channel_ for information than a repository, as it were. Though there wasn't any useful information about the _other_ end of that channel - most writers seemed to simply take it for granted that the Seer was drawing information through themselves rather than receiving something _sent_.

Time, Hermione had been surprised to discover, _was_ mentioned, though never in a practical sense. It tended to come up in discussions of extreme magical mishaps - apparently people had been _erased_ from Time (and yet somehow in a way that it was apparent it had happened). But the details were never discussed in depth because it was - and this was invariably mentioned alongside such references - due to various overlapping laws, _more_ than 100% illegal to research Time magic, at least outside the Department of Mysteries. Aptly, what went on in _there_ was left entirely mysterious - the people who worked there were literally called _Unspeakables_ , Hermione had learned, with some unease.

But this directly implied that Time Travel _was_ possible, or they wouldn't have made it illegal. And obviously dangerous, by the same reasoning. And yet before even coming to Hogwarts, Hermione had purchased and memorized the most current edition of the _Legislative Guide to the Proper Use of Magic_ , and she _certainly_ would've taken note of the possibility of Time Travel (as she had of the possibility of developing the ability to turn into a particular animal at will, which sounded delightful, but also difficult and dangerous beyond the practical benefits). But Hermione, despite her general confidence about things she'd read, always left room for fallibility on her part, so she'd dutifully pulled out her copy of the Guide, and double-checked.

Sure enough, there _were_ a great many relevant statutes, nearly all of which carried mandatory terms in Azkaban, and Hermione had no idea how she'd missed that on her multiple readings. At least until she read a footnote noting that all published references to Time magic (including the entire relevant section of laws) were "Conditionally Obscured", such that to anyone who was not _already aware_ of the existence of Time magic, the words appeared to be innocuous and redundant references to other material. The very concept of a spell which prohibited you from _learning_ something unless you'd _already learned it_ was just...just...it was similar to her feelings about Obliviation, honestly.

Even telling someone about the existence of Time magic without explicit written authorization from the Ministry was _also_ illegal. Which had struck Hermione as being an _extreme_ level of caution, to the point of possibly being self-defeating - what if someone independently discovered Time magic and then innocently (because they'd had no way to know they oughtn't to) went about developing it? But no, there were in fact regulations for spell researchers to explicitly, physically consult a current copy of the Guide before starting major projects and after _any_ novel discovery. On top of all of that, all the relevant laws and regulations, like the Secrecy ones, were International Statutes, shared world-wide through a binding treaty of the International Confederation of Wizards. All in all, magical society had been terribly thorough and gone to tremendous effort, and it was certainly a strong implication about the dangers involved.

There had even been - but only in the laws restricting their use - mention of "approved" forms of Time magic. There were only two of them - which were really only one...apparently there was something called an Hour-Reversal Charm, which allowed a witch to travel _physically back in Time_ one hour. But enchanted devices for producing the same effect were considered much safer, since the Charm was fiendishly difficult and unstable when cast manually. Even so, it was illegal to use the Charm or the devices, _even in emergencies_ , for any purpose _other_ than ones explicitly and individually authorized in writing by the Ministry on a case-by-case basis. It was illegal to attempt, by any combination of Reversals, to produce written works _ex nihilo_ , to act upon any information gained therein prior to a point at which it could not have demonstrably been obtained otherwise _without_ a Reversal, to attempt to cause any event or series of events to unfold in a manner other than what was previously observed to have happened, or to attempt to extend, suborn or otherwise bypass the Charm's inherent maximum scope of five hours.

At this point, Hermione was almost reconsidering her extremely poor opinions of Obliviation, as a practice. Technically, at this very moment, Hermione was _breaking at least one law_ , simply because she had _learned_ about Time magic through an unofficial channel, and wasn't immediately contacting "an authorized official of the Department of Mysteries". Plus there was the whole matter of her notes, which didn't explicitly mention Time Travel, but from the information in which _she_ had eventually deduced it, so someone else might too, and she wasn't sure if that would count as her having told someone else. She tried to act as responsibly as she could on a daily basis, but she _wasn't even twelve yet_ , these were unreasonably serious things for her to have to be involved in, and she considered it a matter of character to be very careful to obey all _rules_ , let alone _laws._

And though it was sort of overshadowed by the whole breaking international law matter, and possibly _erasing people from existence_ , there was also what the Headmaster had apparently said, about the staff investigating her 'hexing'. It was probably a waste of their valuable time, or worse, if they mistakenly identified someone, and that person was punished, it'd be grossly unfair, which meant it wasn't just legally wrong for Hermione to remain silent, but to some degree _morally_ wrong in an absolute sense. Though perhaps not ethically, if she ended up causing more harm by coming forward than she prevented by doing otherwise…

When Hermione arrived in the Defence classroom and took a seat mere seconds before third period began, to say she was agitated would be a considerable understatement. A number of students were looking at her oddly, and Padma actually leaned close.

"Are you entirely well? You look like you're going to sick up," she whispered. Hermione hadn't realized her inner turmoil was so outwardly visible, and made an effort to calm herself.

"I'm fine, thank you," Hermione whispered back.

"Are you sure? If you need to go back to the hospital wing, I can share my Defence notes with you later…" Which was probably the nicest offer a fellow student had ever made to her in her life. In her current state, an impulse of nearly desperate gratitude almost made Hermione want to take her up on it, but the Nurse wouldn't be able to help her with the _actual_ problem until much later anyway, and stewing in the hospital wing might not be as helpful as distracting herself by actually learning things.

"Yes, I'm sure, but _thank you_ , truly."

"Students!" came a surprisingly loud call from the front of the room. Many of the students who hadn't been paying attention, Hermione and Padma included, startled visibly. Professor Quirrell, as if taken aback by the reaction, lowered his voice excessively, to the point where it was necessary to strain to hear him.

"It..I have...that is, it has...been brought to my attention, that some s-s-students may be casting genuinely harmful magics on each other, for..ah...for s-sport? I have...some have said...I have _heard_ that some say my c-classes have not included enough _practical_ Defence, which isn't very fair since I'd only h-h- _held_ two or three classes for any given s-s-student, and…" He continued speaking in a mutter too low to be made out, until one of the students near the front coughed loudly, causing the Professor to startle, once again as if surprised to discover he was in class.

" _Accordingly_ ," he said, and winced as he'd been much too loud again. He settled into a more reasonable speaking volume. "Accordingly, I will b-be adding additional instruction to the s-standard M-m-ministry curriculum. Unfortunately, there isn't m-much that first years _can_ be taught without a solid f-f-foundation in Charms, but I shall d-do my best, starting with two spells that are the simplest c-c-counter-curses for a w-wide variety of lesser c-curses and j-j-jinxes - the Unlocking Spell, and the General C-c-counter-Curse. These spells are n-not normally taught until your s-s-second year, and you w-will not be required to c-c-cast them for your f-final exams...but I w-will mark you on effort during class." There was a general sigh of relief from nearly everyone but Hermione, who had already successfully cast both from her Standard Book of Spells, Grade 2 - _Finite_ in particular had seemed like an important thing to know straight off if one was determined to practice magic frequently without a Professor present...she'd seen Fantasia, after all.

The Professor demonstrated The General Counter-Curse (which Hermione thought somewhat poorly named, as the spell could actually cancel a broad class of magics, whether or not they were unpleasant) several times while the class followed along. After, he had everyone divide into pairs, with one student either lighting their wand - if they could manage it, otherwise the Professor provided something similar that made the whole student glow softly - and the other trying to snuff it with _Finite Incantatem_.

Professor Quirrell had, for reasons he had not explained, segregated the pairings by gender, but mixed them by house, so Hermione found herself facing Tracey Davis of Slytherin. Hermione frowned, and wondered if he somehow thought girls were somehow not matched with boys, though she hadn't encountered any overt signs of a lack of gender equality in magical society. Though for all she knew it was because he was acting on boys' obvious propensity towards distraction. Or perhaps it was a policy he'd decided for older students, and was just staying consistent?

"So, how do you want to proceed?" Hermione asked absently, her expression still somewhat dark. The girl got a very queer look on her face for a moment, almost afraid, but when Hermione's features began to show confusion, her own expression suddenly cleared.

"Oh, right, um...I'll do the light first," she said, sounding oddly relieved. She couldn't think of a good reason the girl would've thought Hermione was angry with her, but she didn't know much about her in general, aside from the fact that she found disfiguring Transfiguration effects and baby-eating monsters _interesting_. Perhaps she'd simply assumed that _Hermione_ would assume that whoever had hexed her was a Slytherin, and that Hermione would be indiscriminate in her reaction? Which seemed ludicrous - it's not as if she were a Gryffindor - but then not everyone thought these things through. Tracey managed to get her wand lit on the third try.

Hermione took a moment to review the spell mentally, checking her previous memory against what the Professor had just demonstrated. Hannah's insight that their books might not be entirely up-to-date seemed particularly apt here, since she was not actually _in_ second-year Charms, and thus Professor Flitwick would have had no reason to give her any errata for the S.B.S. Grade 2. But they seemed identical. In fact, it occurred to her that the Professor's stutter and physical ticks seemed to vanish entirely when he'd been demonstrating actual spellwork, which was curious. Though she supposed if that _hadn't_ been the case, they couldn't have really taken him on as a Professor, could they? She supposed public speaking and magical skill might just draw upon entirely different mindsets. Hermione focused back on the task and gave her wand the proper thrusting jab, with a smooth back-and-forth half-twist throughout.

" _Finite Incantatem!_ " Tracey's wand obediently went dark.

"Excellent, Miss G-granger, two p-points to Ravenclaw for being f-f-first out of the gate," called the Professor haltingly, from across the classroom. Many of the Slytherins (and Morag) gave her dark looks, and Hermione considered the possibility that they might have a point...it's not as if anyone else had even _really_ had the opportunity to practice the spell at all, though they _could_ have bought the Grade 2 book as well, as she had. But she wasn't sure asking the Professor to revoke the points, and her accompanying explanation, would actually make anyone feel much better about it. Tracey, for her part, just looked impressed, and maybe a little scared again. Hermione tried not to frown, and instead just lit her own wand and nodded for the Slytherin to take her turn.

" _Finite Incantatem!_ " Nothing happened. Hermione squinted at the other girl's hand position and motioned for Tracey to try again. " _Finite Inc-_ " she started again, cutting off when Hermione held up a hand.

"You're only doing a half-twist, not a back-and-forth half-twist...you've still got to end up wrist-down at the end, you see?" Hermione demonstrated, and again Tracey gave her a peculiar look, but she nodded and tried again.

" _Finite Incantatem!_ " Hermione nodded encouragingly, though her wand remained brightly lit.

"Almost, the motions were fine, but more accent on the ' _ta'_ , this time?" Tracey reset herself, and tried once more.

" _Finite Incantatem!_ " This time Hermione's wand flickered, then went out, and Tracey beamed. Her smile grew even wider when the Professor awarded a point to Slytherin for Tracey being the _second_ to successfully cast the spell, though it quickly wilted as she looked around. Hermione wasn't sure why - though their expressions were curiously muted, at least the other Slytherins weren't glaring at her as they had at Hermione, and the Ravenclaws only looked determined rather than angry. She thought there might be a glitter in Pansy Parkinson's eyes, though - maybe there was some Slytherin social convention she wasn't aware of?

As Tracey relit her wand - on the first try this time - and they began to trade spells back and forth, Hermione decided to distract herself from one world-shaking problem by exploring what might be another, if subtler one.

"So, I have a question," she began, cautiously. Tracey seemed to react entirely out of proportion, her whole body visibly tensing up.

"Go ahead," she said, in a tone Hermione imagined was normally reserved for speaking to one's own headsman.

"It's nothing _bad_ , or at least, nothing that's _your_ fault," Hermione reassured her. Again that queer look. "I just, I've been thinking about Hogwarts and the Sorting, and I just wondered...what is it like, being in Slytherin?" Once again, the girl seemed to let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. But her eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"Why?" Hermione was _very_ curious about Tracey's attitude, but didn't want to upset her further, so rather than addressing it, she considered carefully how to word her response.

"It had occurred to me that Sorting is a _hard problem_ , and I wondered if the Hat ever makes mistakes. But it's also possible that there really isn't all _that_ much difference between the Houses, in which case it wouldn't be such a big deal. But I only know a bit about what goes on in Hufflepuff and Gryffindor, and none at all about Slytherin." While Tracey considered this, Hermione efficiently _Finite_ 'd the girl's light, then lit her own wand.

"It's...sort of like all of Hogwarts, with House points? Except every person has their _own_ points, and you can't just look at the hourglasses to see how many there are, you have to _guess_ based on how everyone else treats you. And people with _more_ points than you can add points, and nearly _everyone_ can take away points as long as someone else agrees with them - unless your parents are important and then maybe not - and it's not just schoolwork, it's _every single thing_ you do or say or don't do or don't say." She'd lowered her voice conspiratorially - with a furtive glance towards Draco Malfoy when she'd mentioned 'parents' - and was somewhat out of breath at the finish, the words having poured out of her in a rush.

Hermione's mouth opened in horror, and then a little less horror as she realized this was actually an apt description of her own school experience prior to Hogwarts - if perhaps with a bit of additional classist prejudice added in - and then _more_ horror again as she imagined what it would have been like to not be able to retreat to her own home, her own room, but instead to _live_ like that, _all the time_. What would someone have to be like to come out of seven years of that _not_ mad? And again, while according to popular reference more didn't than all the other Houses combined, the vast majority of them nevertheless _did_ come out apparently sane, non-evil, non-Dark-Lords.

In that light, maybe the Hat's description of Slytherin was a more subtle test. Because you'd have to put up with a _lot_ more to get along in that House - being called cunning or even ruthless was the _mildest possible_ taste of what awaited you. But that still left the most fundamental question.

" _Why?_ " Hermione breathed. Tracey gave her a long, thoughtful look, then shrugged.

"Why anything? _I_ don't know, I've only _really_ been a Slytherin for _four days_. But supposedly the Founders told the Hat to look for stuff they thought was important. I guess that Salazar must have decided that, even if students were miserable, or even went Dark...he wanted people who made it all the way through the House with _his_ name, to be _strong_. To be _survivors_. Because you'd have to be, right?" They'd already been speaking softly, but the last words came out nearly inaudibly. She stared down at her wand, and Hermione felt such a swell of sympathy for the girl that she wanted to hug her, or hold her hand, or _something_.

But Hermione hadn't even taken a step forward, had barely shifted her weight, when Tracey's head snapped up and all of her earlier trepidation and uncertainty seemed to be replaced by firm, cold resolve.

" _FINITE INCANTATEM!_ " she snapped, her pronunciation and wand motions perfect, and Hermione's wand light went out instantly, sending a sharp tingle into her hand and halfway down her arm. Hermione was _literally_ taken aback, shuffling backwards a couple steps, so shocked was she at the Slytherin's abrupt emotional about-face.

"I...I'm sorry if I something I said…" she began, but Tracey just shook her head and lit her wand, waiting expectantly, her face carefully neutral.

They spent the rest of the class in silence that was broken only to exchange flawless incantations. The tension was obvious to the rest of their classmates - and the Professor - but no one chose to comment on it at that particular moment, or at least not in earshot of them.

o-o-o

When Professor Quirrell dismissed them, Hermione had intended to try to catch Tracey privately on their way to Transfiguration to attempt another apology and find out exactly _what_ she'd done to so obviously upset the girl. But the Slytherin was first out the door, and once into the corridor, Hermione found her own way blocked.

"I need a word with you, Granger," said Theodore Nott, his thin frame somehow positioned perfectly so everyone else could pass by but Hermione couldn't quite join the flow to get around him.

"Excuse me... _Mister_ Nott, I'd be happy to speak with you some other time, but right now-" she began, testily.

"Oh, I think you _need_ to hear what I have to say...won't take long," he said, oozing confidence. At a small rustling sound, Hermione lowered her gaze from where she'd been looking slightly up into his eyes and saw he was holding several sheets of paper, folded neatly into quarters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully the juicy bits at the end make up for all those crunchy wads of exposition up front. ;)
> 
> Edit: Thanks to /u/MonstrousBird for the brit-pick on "public" school meaning the exact opposite of what a bewildered American would expect!


	15. Leverage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to /u/karlitohomes for catching my *several* Padma/Parvati flubs...darn twins. And /u/eric1221bday for another (Hufflepuff vs Ravenclaw), and /u/4t0m for "sort have" *cringe*.

o-o-o-o-o

"Oh, thank you for coming to me!" Hermione said, sincerely. "I'm sorry about being rather _dramatic_ in the note there but there's no trouble really, so I can just take those back...and did you actually give a copy to someone like I suggested?" The Slytherin made no move to hand her the papers, only studied her thoughtfully.

"I can't tell you, obviously," he said quietly, after a moment. "That was the whole point, wasn't it? So that if whatever is _possessing_ you does something to _me_ as well, there'd be a third line of defense?" Hermione sighed. He was absolutely right, and it's exactly what she would've _wanted_ him to do in her original plan...but now it just made things complicated. She wished, once more, that she'd thought things through a little better. "The question is," he continued, "is that _actually_ what's going on here?"

"I...er...oh?" Hermione stammered, caught off guard and tensing up. Could he have somehow figured out the same thing she had, about her future-self? That could be even _worse_ than just having read what was there. The boy smiled a little bit, at her reaction.

"Well, you're not possessed, for starters, I got that from the nurse."

"You...Madam Wainscott _told_ you that?" Hermione was vaguely offended at the apparent breach of medical - or metaphysical? - confidentiality.

"I told her I was afraid for my own safety, considering what happened to Madam Pomfrey…'what if what happened to that first-year wasn't just a hex, what if some Dark spirit was _doing_ things with her body? Who could be next?'" He smiled a little. "Not my best by far, but she's _very_ eager to keep students healthy and happy...assured me up and down that she'd specifically checked for possession and ruled it out." Hermione's offense immediately reversed direction, as she imagined the nurse's kind nature being turned against her, and even bringing up Madam Pomfrey. In her mental notes on the Slytherin Question, she added a tick-mark next to "Nott, Theodore".

"So, the whole thing is definitely made up...either because you _did_ get hit by some obscure hex I'd never heard of, or because you did it deliberately. _Do_ you actually believe the things in there are going to happen?"

Hermione frowned at the direct question. She thought they _might_ , but she wasn't sure. But she wasn't sure if she should even say. She didn't know Theodore at all, didn't have any sense of how he'd react to things, so trying to manipulate him was right out, even if she _was_ good at that sort of thing, which she knew she wasn't.

"Not in the way I think you're asking. I mean, anything's _possible_ , but...this whole thing with the notes was...well, I didn't think it through enough. May I please just have them back and we can pretend this never happened?" The Slytherin nodded thoughtfully, though he was not agreeing to her request.

"You're not _insisting_ it's true, which could be because you made it up yourself, or the hex has just worn off and you're embarrassed. Anyway, I'm _curious_ , but that's not really why we need to talk."

"I'm definitely embarrassed," Hermione mumbled.

"What you should be is _concerned_ , if not outright terrified," continued the boy. Hermione didn't disagree, but she wasn't sure why _he_ thought that, if he believed everything in the notes was made up…

"Why do you say that?"

"Well, for starters, you've made some serious allegations and implications about prominent people, here. Ollivander. The _Malfoys_. At minimum, you've opened yourself to charges of Defamation and Impugning the Honor of a Noble House. Maybe the hex excuse could get you off, if you could afford a good enough barrister or had powerful people willing to stand for you in the Wizengamot, but maybe not - they can't just accept _everyone_ claiming 'I was Confunded' or 'I was under an Imperius', you know, or no one would ever be convicted of anything."

This sounded unpleasantly likely to Hermione...handling questions of legal responsibility when things like the Imperius Curse and Memory Charms existed was a sticky problem. Hermione had read about something called Veritaserum, which could make someone not lie, or even force them to volunteer true answers, but there was an apparently undetectable antidote, as well as other ways around it, including Memory Charms.

"Then there's the matter of Potter announcing the Dark Lord's return. If an _actual_ Death Eater read that and thought there was even the _slightest chance_ of it being a real Prophecy, well…" Hermione put her hands to her mouth in horror.

"They'd go after Harry," she breathed. Nott looked irritated and shook his head.

"No. Well, I mean yes, but they'd have done that anyway, Boy-Who-Lived and all that. I meant they'd come for _you_. They'd rip every scrap of information they thought might be useful from your mind, and then torture you to produce _more_ prophetic details, torture your parents, torture your pets...they're very big on torture, you know. Not that there are supposed to be any Death Eaters outside Azkaban anymore, but relying on the Ministry to have not missed _any_...mmm. _I_ certainly wouldn't." Hermione paled, and thought she might be sick. The vision where the crazed witch was torturing Hermione's older self...was this how that started?

"Wait...but all of this is only a problem if the notes get distributed! So you can just give them back, and get back any copies you made…" Hermione's eager solution trailed off as the Slytherin said nothing, the corners of his lips curling upwards ever so slightly. Hermione stared, uncomprehending, until she suddenly did. She found herself unable to say anything, even as some part of her mind was bitterly adding tick marks and checks and little dripping crosses beside "Nott, Theodore".

"I see you've finally realized the situation you put yourself in," said the boy, with considerable - almost _theatrical_ \- relish. Hermione had the bizarre impression that if he'd had a moustache, he'd have twirled it.

"What do you want?" asked Hermione, quietly.

"Do you know, I haven't decided yet?" he replied cheerfully. "I thought it'd be _weeks_ until I had leverage like this on anyone, and only after _loads_ of work. I'd rub it in Malfoy's face, but then he'd start digging for details, and _that_ could be awkward, eh?" Nott winked. "But just stumbling across this little gem, _literally_ begging someone to pick it up and read it...feels like I didn't really _earn_ it, you know?" For a moment Hermione dared to hope that some twisted sense of - what, blackmail-pride? - would get her out of this, but her heart sank as he continued. "Not that I really have a problem with that. Beyond power and wealth and honor and all that, it's what being a pure-blood _really means_...that good things happen to people like _me_ , and bad things happen to people like _you_." Hermione felt blood rush to her cheeks, hot, liquid shame. She _knew_ she didn't even have anything to be ashamed of, her parents were wonderful, but somehow, she felt it all the same, like being bullied but a hundred times worse. Because it wasn't about how she acted, or dressed, though those were bad enough. Simply because of what she _was_.

Hermione thought of herself as a very, very, good person, which was why she found her sudden daydreams of _very_ nasty things happening to Theodore Nott equally curious and shameful.

But not technically _unpleasant_ , which on a deeper level made it even worse.

"I'm going to have to think about this some more," he said, finally. "Rest assured, I'll come up with something worthwhile, and meanwhile I'm confident the extra copies I made will be quite safe...and won't be read until the proper time." With that, he turned and began walking towards the Transfiguration classroom.

Hermione found her wand in her left hand, somehow, the tip aimed at Theodore's back, and beginning the complicated shape that started a Memory Charm. Which was _insane_ , Memory Charms were awful, they ought to be Unforgivable, and even if she'd seen a couple performed - at least memories of them, rather - she hadn't _practiced_ , she could get it _wrong_ , she _wasn't that kind of person-_

The wand clattered onto the floor as she forced her hand to open, interrupting the spell. The Slytherin paused at the noise, slowly half-turned his head back. His eyes dropped to the wand, then back to Hermione's face. He smiled a little, then continued walking.

Hermione, hands shaking, picked up her wand and put it back in her bag, then slowly followed.

o-o-o

There were odd looks as Nott, and ten seconds later Hermione, entered the classroom just before the period was to begin, and a couple of whispers, which the Slytherin ignored and Hermione barely registered. Tracey Davis was in a back corner, looking less determined and more nervous again as Daphne and Pansy in adjacent desks whispered at her urgently. Whereas Morag seemed a bit surprised to see Hermione come in, but quickly covered it. _Maybe since I was almost late she'd thought I was going to skip class?_ Hermione thought, dully.

She hurriedly took a seat as Professor McGonagall sharply tapped her wand on her desk three times, and the class quieted. But before the Professor could even say a word, Morag had her hand in the air.

"Yes, Miss MacDougal?"

"I just wanted tae ask...did you ask Hermione not to help us with Transfiguration?" Morag's expression seemed entirely innocent, but expectant. The Professor paused, and most of the Ravenclaws unconsciously held their breath.

"I did," she said, simply. There was an audible exhalation of relief, even amongst those who had professed to believe Hermione's explanation, but Morag's face went dark.

"Why?" she asked, and she'd dropped any pretense at innocent curiosity.

"That a Professor has given an instruction ought to be sufficient, Miss MacDougal," the Professor said primly, but continued in a more conciliatory tone. "All I will say for the moment is that Miss Granger has had an _insight_ about Transfiguration, but one which I am not yet sure is _safe_ to be disclosed. Once I have made that determination, I may lift the restrictions I've given her, or not, as appropriate."

"But that's not _fair!_ "

"Miss MacDougal," said the Professor, warningly. She waited, and Morag glowered but said nothing, earning a nod from McGonagall. "There are many innate talents a witch may possess, or not, facilities for broomstick flying, or Charms, or Transfiguration, and these talents are _generally_ not distributed fairly. In the long run, diligent study and practice almost _always_ eclipses such inherent gifts. But regardless, be glad that in this case, Miss Granger's innovations _may_ be something you can eventually benefit from, rather than something unique to her? I assure you that Miss Granger wanted nothing more than to share with the rest of the class, and is in fact undertaking additional work outside of class to explore making that possible." This caused a lot of the students, Slytherins included, to look at Hermione with an assortment of expressions, some baffled, some admiring, others thoughtful. The Professor paused again, and when there was no further interruption, began the day's lecture.

o-o-o

Hermione's determination to treat Slytherins without prejudice or prejudgement was at an extremely low ebb, so it was probably for the best that her first Potions class was with Hufflepuff. They would be the first first-years to have Professor Snape - Gryffindor and Slytherin had their first Potions tomorrow morning - so no one knew for sure what it would be like. But upper-year Ravenclaws had said he was only a little more strict than McGonagall, though much less polite to students, whereas Ron had reported upper-year Gryffindors said he was horrible, unfair, vindictive and Not-Very-Secretly Evil, but of course that's what most students said about Slytherins in general, and Gryffindors promoted this view almost unanimously. It was also widely reported that Snape had been after the Defence Professorship for years (many speculated this was so he would be permitted to cast Dark spells on students for "educational" purposes).

This sort of muddy thinking tended to irritate Hermione, which was why she found it irritating in an entirely different way when Snape swept into the room, his black cloak flapping, and _looked_ Evil. Not quite Dracula-Evil, but certainly as if he was actively working at it. Maybe this was just what you got when people gave up and _embraced_ the Slytherin reputation. She supposed that could be a valid coping strategy for saving your sanity, though possibly at the cost of your soul - metaphorically speaking.

He called roll in a businesslike fashion, then simply paused and stared at the class for a moment, which stretched on and on uncomfortably. No one chose to interrupt the silence, however - the Professor had a kind of cold intensity that made any such impulse seem unwise at best. Finally, he began to speak.

"Despite what many of you may believe," he began, slowly, "Potion-making is magic of the _highest_ order, a subtle science and an exacting art, beautiful and unforgiving in equal measure. Potions carry insidious power, for by ingestion do they bypass our defences, traveling in our very blood, to our hearts, our brains, every fibre of our being. _Nothing_ you possess cannot be improved upon, or _stolen away_ , by the skilled application of the proper recipe.

"But Potion-making is not like other magic. Like Transfiguration, it requires mental discipline, knowledge and attention to detail. Like Charms, it requires instinct, dexterity and memory. But unlike either, the strength of its effects come entirely from the _ingredients_ , transformed by pure skill, not your own pathetically underdeveloped magical abilities. In other schools of magic, you still lack the strength to do true harm, even accidentally. But Potions will serve anyone with sufficient skill and knowledge, regardless of age. They will _punish_ those who do not respect them. Make the wrong slip with the wrong substance of power...and you - and perhaps others - _will_ join Madam Pomfrey." A couple of gasps greeted this, but the Professor looked more quietly pleased than irritated at the reaction.

"Show the Art the _proper_ respect, however, and you will see wonders...I can teach you to bottle fame, to brew glory, even stopper death...but only if you are _significantly_ less idiotic than the wastes of salt I am typically forced to instruct." Hermione found herself, a bit surprisingly, respecting Professor Snape. It was a similar introduction as McGonagall had given for Transfiguration, with as much presence but more drama. And even though she recognized his last line as an attempt at manipulation, inspiring students to prove him wrong, it was working _anyway_...she _did_ want to earn his respect - and it was clear he truly loved his subject, which in Hermione's experience was a quality the best teachers shared.

"By the time I've finished writing the ingredients for today's lesson on the blackboard," he said, turning to do as he'd said, "I expect you to have arranged yourselves in pairs and half-filled a cauldron with water from the gargoyle." Hermione looked around as students immediately began pairing up. She'd vaguely expected the Patil twins to find each other, since they'd gone to different houses. Padma seemed to think the same thing, heading in her sister's direction, but stopped short as Parvati immediately asked Neville Longbottom to be her partner. Seeing Padma's face fall a bit, Hermione saw an opportunity to reciprocate the girl's kindness in Defence and tapped her on the shoulder.

"Want to team up? Between the two of us, we can probably finish early and maybe get points for helping others?" The other girl smiled at the casual assumption of their combined superiority and quickly agreed. As the class continued and they dutifully followed Professor Snape's instructions - but quickly, as they'd both read ahead to know what was coming - Padma dared some quiet conversation.

"So, really, Hermione, what's going on? When you came into Transfiguration, you looked even _worse_ than you did in Defence, but you're not just feeling unwell, you're _thinking_ about something, I can tell." Hermione was starting to get very tired of not being able to tell people things, but she brightened a smidge as she realized that in this case maybe she _could_ say something, since it would seem entirely reasonable to withhold details. And she'd dearly appreciate some emotional support, if not actual assistance.

"Say someone had found something you'd written that you didn't want other people to see," Hermione said, too quietly to be overheard, "something embarrassing, or very private...and they knew that you felt that way and planned to use that to get you to do something or give them money, or...whatever, something you wouldn't ordinarily do. How would you get out of it?"

"Nott is _blackmailing_ you?" Padma said immediately, and Hermione looked around in alarm since her fellow Ravenclaw had been not _quite_ as quiet as Hermione would have preferred. No one appeared to have heard her, but Hermione held a finger to her lips urgently, even as her mind spun. How did...what...what? But her confusion lasted only a moment, replaced with chagrin. She'd come in too closely behind Nott...and he'd been giving her looks that anyone could've noticed, even if they hadn't known what they meant. And she'd forgotten that other people could be clever.

"Probably. He says he's thinking about it," Hermione whispered.

"Well, what is it of yours that he's got?" Padma asked, finally matching Hermione's conspiratorial tone.

"Sorry...I can't really say, can I?" Hermione noted, and thankfully Padma accepted this, nodding thoughtfully.

"You could go to Flitwick, I suppose," she suggested after a moment. "If it's really your property, he'll be able to find it with spells, and he might even Memory Charm Nott so he couldn't spill your secrets to anyone." Hermione frowned.

"I don't like Memory Charms...but also, Nott said he's made copies, and _those_ aren't my property - plus I don't know who he's given them to or what he's told them...even if he's Memory Charmed, they might realize somehow and then just tell him again, or distribute everything?" Padma frowned, and nodded slowly as they continued brewing their Boil-Curing Potion. Their tête-à-tête was briefly interrupted by a cry from Padma's sister, who was yanking Neville's arm away from the cauldron.

"No, Neville! We have to take the cauldron off the fire _before_ adding the quills," Parvati said urgently.

"Oh, right, right," Neville agreed nervously, though he immediately started to do so by grasping the small round pot by its sides rather than the handle and yelped as his fingers were singed. Fortunately he hadn't lifted it far enough to spill anything when he hastily dropped the cauldron, though it teetered dangerously for a moment.

"Point from Hufflepuff for Longbottom's idiocy, point to Hufflepuff for Miss Patil's timely intervention," snapped Snape from across the classroom, and if anyone thought it peculiar for the Professor to cancel a penalty with an award (or vice versa), no one thought it prudent to mention. "Longbottom, there's unguent in the third drawer from the top on the left at the front of the room, see to your hands...if you're _very_ lucky, your partner will successfully finish the potion before you can return and make another attempt to ruin it." There were a couple of titters from Ravenclaws, but most everyone else just looked scared, or grateful they weren't the target of the Professor's sharp tongue. Despite having prevented disaster and "earning" a point for Hufflepuff, Parvati seemed as dejected as Neville.

"She fancies him," whispered Padma to Hermione, who had been puzzling out Parvati's reaction.

"What, really?"

"Yep, ever since the train...she won't explain it either. Maybe she _can't_ ," mused Padma, whose expression said _she_ certainly found it inexplicable. Hermione, who understood romance (or at least hormones) intellectually but hadn't yet been afflicted _personally_ , found herself in agreement. They finished the next-to-last step of their potion, then lapsed into thoughtful silence while they waited for the small sand-glass to empty.

"Oh, of course," said Padma suddenly. "You've just got to get something similar on _him_. So if he ever let out your secret, you can let out _his_ \- that way, if he knows what's good for him, he'll just drop the whole thing." Hermione considered this.

"Mutually Assured Destruction? Hmm...I'm not sure I could go through with that, I really try to be as ethical a person as I can…" Padma gave her a peculiar look, then shook her head.

"Doesn't matter, as long as _he_ believes that you _might_ go through with it, it'll be enough. You can _pretend_ to be Slytherin, right?" Hermione was about to correct her use of Slytherin as a pejorative, but before a word came out of her mouth, everyone went quiet as a voice hissed above them, loud enough to reach every corner of the classroom.

"Did you listen to a _single_ word I said?" asked Professor Snape, his voice icy. "Idiocy is one thing, but your otherwise exemplary performance up to this point suggests that _you_ two know better...and yet are now _disrespecting_ your potion with your inattentive gossip." Padma tried to point out that she'd totally been watching the sand-glass, and it still had two minutes left, but the Professor rolled on relentlessly. "What was this discussion about that you deemed more important than your _education_ , your _safety_ , and the _safety_ of your fellow students?"

Hermione stared up at him, wide-eyed, as his cold, dark eyes bored down at her. Being yelled at by a teacher was an entirely foreign concept that she was simply not emotionally prepared for, and only her raw shock was for the moment holding back the tears that were likely coming. Particularly since he was _right_ , even if he was being overly harsh about it...since when did _she_ jabber on during classes, let alone _dangerous_ ones? Not that it wasn't important to keep herself out of Nott's devious clutches, or more so, to prevent him from revealing to any hypothetically-at-large Death Eaters that she _knew_ Voldemort was going to-

Snape abruptly backed a single step away from her, his expression not changing in the slightest.

"Regardless of _your_ opinions, It was _not_ important. _Keep it to yourself_ ," he spat, then swept over to Terry and Kevin's table and began ruthlessly berating them for the their failure to stir evenly. Padma and Hermione glanced at each other in nervous confusion, each wanting to say "He forgot to take points from us," but unwilling to risk any speech at all. At least the strange reprieve had jolted Hermione out of her emotional tailspin before she'd shed any tears. Through everything, she'd felt Morag's inexplicably resentful eyes on her the whole time.

o-o-o

It was only after class was finished - all the students had practically sprinted out of his classroom, and he'd firmly shut and sealed the door with efficient twitches of his wand - that the wizard let his iron control slip. A bead of sweat formed at his temple, and his eyes showed some of what he'd felt upon casually invading the young girl's mind, as was his habit - ostensibly to keep his skills in practice, but at least in part simply for his own amusement.

Severus Snape sat alone for some time, struggling to overcome his shock. And fear.


	16. In Memoriam

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thanks to /u/HermioneGPEV for catching a hanging-edit redundancy! And /u/torac for a tense flub!

Dinner was a relatively sombre affair, given the impending memorial service, but not quite so much as it had been the night Madam Pomfrey's death had been announced. Hermione wondered how many students intended on actually attending. From the relative volume of conversation across and along the House tables, she guessed slightly more Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors, and more upper-years than younger students.

She'd eaten no more than a few nibbles - her stomach had never really improved over the course of the day's various stresses - then headed to the hospital wing before the dinner hour had even finished. Hermione had peered carefully at the head table, but Nurse Wainscott hadn't appeared, so she presumed she was still hard at work.

As she entered the open doorway, she'd intended to knock politely, but her hand hesitated, halfway raised. Nurse Wainscott was sitting at the small desk-cum-worktable near the entrance, but hadn't yet noticed Hermione, as her forehead was resting on her folded arms atop the desk. Despite how near she was, the Ravenclaw couldn't hear anything, but from the way the young woman's shoulders were moving, it seemed clear she was crying.

Hermione was frozen with awkward indecision. If she tried to comfort her, would the nurse be embarrassed by such attention from a student? Or if she _didn't_ try, was she being a horrible person? A Gryffindor might've just done it without thinking, probably likewise a Hufflepuff. But she was a Ravenclaw, and she hadn't _read_ any books on helping people cope with grief, let alone one appropriate for children helping an adult, which she suspected didn't even exist. She almost stepped back into the hallway to hide, but her anti-anxiety reflexes kicked in, and she examined her fear.

_I'm afraid I'm going to make a mistake. The consequences I fear are partially making her feel worse, but mostly...me feeling embarrassed if I get it wrong. But my feelings aren't the most important ones here, she's feeling much, much worse than I'm likely to, and for better reason. Plus, even if I do make a mistake and feel embarrassed, I will probably feel much worse later if I don't try anything at all._

Before she could think any other thoughts and possibly rationalize herself out of it, Hermione took two quick steps forward and hugged the young woman. She startled, and indeed looked a bit embarrassed, but straightened in her chair and turned slightly, returning the hug. After a moment they separated, and the nurse tried to say something, but nothing came out. She held up an apologetic finger, recovered her wand from the desk and made the familiar motions for a _Finite_ , then tried again.

"Thank you. I know I'm supposed to be staying strong for everyone, I just…" She wiped at her cheeks with a corner of her apron. Hermione felt very glad she'd done as she had, but still a bit helpless.

"I...I never actually met Madam Pomfrey, but everyone I've heard talk about her says she was a really good person. I'm sorry." Her words felt painfully inadequate, but there wasn't really anything she could say that would _help_...she might mention the ongoing Ravenclaw investigation into whose fault it actually was, but she hadn't received any owls back, and there was still no telling if that would actually end up exonerating Madam Pomfrey. Except…

"She was, truly," said the nurse, not really looking at Hermione. "I feel like a fraud, trying to do her job...I'm just starting my third training year, for Hippocrates' sake, I only graduated two years ago." Hermione, who still harbored a semi-conscious faith in the universality of the categories 'responsible adult' and 'everyone else', for the first time vaguely noticed how young the woman was - she could've easily passed for a seventh-year.

"I'm sure Professor Dumbledore wouldn't have given you the job if you couldn't do it," Hermione said kindly, if not necessarily with _full_ confidence, since the woman seemed to have a point. At least insofar as Hermione's understanding of the qualifications process for positions went, which was admittedly not very far.

"The Headmaster is a great wizard, and very kind, but...if I'd only returned _faster_ , maybe I'd have noticed, warned her…" Madam Wainscott looked like she might cry again, then shook her head angrily. "Merlin, I shouldn't be even talking to you about this. Let me just finish writing the dosing instructions for your potion." She reached for a quill and resumed scratching out careful lines on an already half-filled scroll on the desk.

As uncomfortable as Hermione was at not having really helped, if she was honest with herself, she was grateful the conversation had ended - partially from awkwardness, but also as something in the conversation had increasingly distracted her, the realization that once again, she hadn't re-evaluated prior conclusions based on new information, had not ever really evaluated them fully in the first place, because new things kept _coming up_ and she just hadn't had _time_ to think about everything properly. It was all about what happened to Madam Pomfrey - if she was assuming for the moment that the un-disillusioned notes were accurate, which she was, Hermione didn't _need_ to wait to hear back from the ingredients suppliers, because the notes gave plenty of clues. Older Hermione felt responsible for Madam Pomfrey's death, because it was a _change_. And it had something to do with someone with the initials "P.P.", who was a he, and _had_ been hiding and was probably hiding _now_. Who had been on the Hogwarts Express, which was _also_ a change, or something about him was a change, something that Hermione must have at least witnessed...

 _It wasn't an accident...Madam Pomfrey was actually murdered...and by a student?_ Hermione thought, as her train of logic reached a reasonable conclusion. And her older self wanted to _leave him alone._ The Ravenclaw knew she didn't have all the facts about this Time business, maybe more changes would be _so_ bad that letting a murderer walk free was still _better_ than the alternative. But it certainly didn't feel that way...it made her mistrust her older self's judgement again, her older self who didn't want her to talk to anyone _responsible_ , who had (will have?) Memory Charmed her _parents_ , and it was all so frustrating that she discovered she was shaking a bit. So frustrating that until Madam Wainscott turned to her, she didn't realize she'd actually murmured her thought aloud.

"What?" said the young woman, her face pale. Hermione's own blood drained away as the reality of her slip sunk in. She wanted to say something else, something clever, even to _lie_ , but she couldn't seem to think of any words, she just shook her head in hopeless negation. Nurse Wainscott's expression progressed from alarmed, through stern, even angry for a moment, but then her features softened.

"You're still under the effects of that hex," she said, quietly. In spite of the fortunate reprieve this interpretation offered, the frustrated part of Hermione wanted to shout at her that she'd _never been hexed_ in the first place, and even if she _had_ , this was about the _past_ , not the future. But the horrified part of her was much larger now, and overruled the rest, keeping her jaw clamped firmly shut. Still, something must've shown in her expression, because the nurse continued to elaborate, in a tone that was surely meant to be gentle, but nevertheless felt like someone consoling a young child who'd discovered an uncomfortable truth about Christmas, and this did not help Hermione's mood. "Professor McGonagall and the _Headmaster_ came, of course, they did spells, and later Professors Snape and Flitwick. They all agreed there weren't any people in the room but Madam Pomfrey when I left, and no one else had entered the room until I came back and found her...found her. They were _certain_. I know your... _impressions_ must feel real, but you must realize that no one, certainly no _student_ would want to hurt Madam Pomfrey, just try to focus on that?"

Hermione wanted to challenge this - what if a student had been "hiding" - but if those four had been certain, Hermione _had_ to assume it was true, at least for the moment. Though she mentally bumped up the priority of looking into forensic spells on her own. But it still didn't rule it out, someone might have managed to arrange the whole thing from outside the room, only using their wand - though this did seem a little far-fetched. Or Imperiused Madam Pomfrey to do it all herself? She didn't know the details of the Unforgivable Curse, but surely it operated at a distance, or it ought to have been much easier to tell when it was being used during You-Know-Who's reign of terror. Or even - and this thought freshly terrified Hermione - Memory Charmed her to forget basic safety protocols of Potion-making.

Though there was still the nurse's very relevant question of motive. Why _would_ a student want to do such a thing? Hermione held a fairly skeptical view of the supposed "innocence" of the average child, but murder went rather beyond casual cruelty. Barring actual psychopathy or something similarly beyond anticipation, she expected it'd take something very strong...true hatred, or mortal fear being most likely. And it did seem likely Madam Wainscott was correct, that no one had any reason she was aware of to hate Madam Pomfrey, she'd been universally respected. Hermione supposed she could have some secret dark past, but that seemed relatively unlikely. And similarly, on the other end, how could a _healer_ cause anyone to fear for their life, when her very purpose was to preserve it?

Hermione knew some people were afraid of doctors in general, or needles, but again, such a thing somehow escalating to a _carefully-staged murder_ seemed very unlikely. Perhaps something she would have _discovered_ in the course of her duties, some condition or injury that would ruin someone's life if revealed. Lycanthropy, maybe? She'd read those afflicted became effective outcasts, even though they were as safe as anyone else most of the month, and no danger the rest of the time if proper precautions were taken. Perhaps some other infectious curse? Infectious…there was _something_ there...had she encountered someone on the train who looked sick?

"Here you go," said the nurse - still gently - holding out a small box, and Hermione frowned a little, both at the tone, and having been startled out of her train of thought. Madam Wainscott had apparently finished the scroll after Hermione had lapsed into introspection. The lid of the box she held was opened to display the contents, which Hermione examined as she accepted it: a small amber bottle - hand-labeled "Liquid Sheep", an eyedropper with gradation marks, a clear jar containing what appeared to be small chocolate sweets, and the scroll with the dosing instructions. If she was interpreting the tiny symbols properly, the eyedropper marks were in "fluid drams", and if she was remembering a chart she'd read once properly, those would be either 3.7 or 3.55 ml each (depending on whether this particular part of magical society was stuck before or after 1824), either of which did look about right for the size of the dropper.

"It's all in the scroll, but you want to stir nine drams of Liquid Sheep into a beverage - cold or hot doesn't matter, as long as it's at least a good cup, then drink the whole thing as quickly as you can. The potion isn't _harmful_ concentrated, but if taken that way some parts of you might fall asleep more quickly than others, which can be disconcerting. It should take effect within only a minute or two, so I'd drink it after you're already in bed. I've included some chocolate covered espresso beans if you wake up groggy - less side effects than a countering potion, just don't go overboard. Try to go to bed early the first time you test it, so in case I've missed the dosage you don't end up missing classes? If you wake up too early to just get up, you can use one or two extra drams to make up the gap."

"Ok. Thank you very much...this is incredibly helpful," Hermione said, nodding. She tried to shake her irritation at not being able to remember something - because she wasn't sure _what_ she was trying to remember, which was really the only reason she'd ever had any difficulty in that department.

"You're welcome. Before you've used up the whole bottle, do try a night occasionally without it to see if things have improved? If not, come back and I'll arrange for a regular supply. And remember, try to focus on your studies, and let the 'future' sort itself out, all right?" Hermione carefully suppressed a scowl, and instead nodded dutifully, not wanting to spoil her otherwise genuine gratitude.

o-o-o

Hermione had debated whether or not to go to the memorial service, but in the end decided to attend. If her older self _was_ in some sense responsible, then logically, so was she. But she was also thinking about her impending "conversation" with herself, and thinking that having just seen Madam Pomfrey's memorial, Older Hermione might be feeling a little more flexible about _doing_ something about it.

By the time she'd returned to the Great Hall, dinner had finished and the furniture had been rearranged. All the tables were set against the sides of the room, while the benches had been turned sideways and set into rows, church-style. It looked like most of the staff were present in the first row, though she didn't see Professor Snape or Professor Quirrell. About a hundred Hogwarts students half-filled the rows behind, mostly older ones as she'd expected. She'd also expected to see more other adults, alumni who wanted to pay their respects, but there were none. Hermione supposed the school was still sealed, so-

The school was sealed, and Madam Pomfrey had been murdered. They _knew_.

In shock, Hermione half-sat, half-fell onto a bench, just as the Headmaster rose from the seat he'd been waiting in and walked slowly to stand behind a lectern at the front of the Great Hall. A stand to the side, surrounded by flowers, held an animated portrait of Madam Pomfrey, in the hospital wing, looking very professional. Those assembled swiftly fell silent.

 _Why_ hadn't they brought in Aurors? If a student _had_ tried to run, it would've been a fairly large clue, and even a seventh-year shouldn't be able to avoid professional law enforcement, considering the advantages of magic. Was it just a...public relations thing? She wasn't sure that made sense, given the publicity Ms. Skeeter was already giving them over the sealing on top of the death. But a murder perpetrated by a student _would_ still be a horrible scandal, she supposed. Yet that would imply they intended to simply allow everyone to go on thinking she'd killed herself accidentally, forever, which seemed a serious injustice even if her murderer was eventually caught.

"We have come here tonight in memory and honor of Madam Poppy Pomfrey. A dedicated Healer. A talented witch. A friend. Poppy came to Hogwarts, Sorted into Gryffindor, in the first year I was privileged to serve as Headmaster. From the very beginning, she had a fierce desire to become a Healer. After her graduation, when she was still in training at St. Mungo's, I chanced to overhear a conversation that I think illustrates her convictions well enough to share it with you."

Hermione began to wonder if holding positions of power and importance, and being very talented with magic actually _implied_ a strong ethical framework. That's how the world _ought_ to work, but...ethics by definition limited the actions you allowed yourself to take, so unethical people would logically be more flexible. Which might translate to being more _effective_ , and thus they would rise naturally, as long as they were careful not to do anything so overt that the ethical people banded together in opposition… Or maybe important people had to look at ethics differently, more consequentially. It wasn't how something _felt_ that mattered, but what ultimately came of it. "The ends justify the means" was a seductive argument to someone who took logic as seriously as Hermione did, but it felt _suspiciously_ seductive.

The line of reasoning so disturbed Hermione that she abandoned the analysis and looked instead for alternative explanations. In what situation would sealing the school make more sense? Well, what if it _wasn't_ a student, but they didn't know who...then making sure they didn't escape would be helpful. At least if you didn't count locking a murderer into a school full of children. And it _still_ wouldn't make sense to not bring in Aurors. Unless they _had_ , and they were just investigating secretly somehow, Disillusioned, or posing as students?

"Someone, upon discovering her House affiliation, noted surprise, since they would have expected a person so devoted to helping others to have been a shoo-in for Hufflepuff. Poppy replied that most people were good-hearted, so when someone was injured, or sick, it was natural for anyone to want to help them. But to her mind, for her to be the best Healer she could be, she had to be able to still do it, and do it well, when things seemed bleak, when times were bad, when she was alone. That illness, injury and death had to be challenged at every turn, even if the battle, in the end, was hopeless. That when you saw that the world ought to be better, you _fought_ to make it so."

The thoughts she'd been using to try to manage her shock at the staff's apparent complicity in a cover-up -as well as to distract herself from the uncomfortable emotions of the memorial - scattered. Hermione was surprised to feel tears running down her cheeks, and wondered if they were hers, or _hers_. But she didn't think it mattered. Tears were a way of giving feelings honor and voice when you didn't have the words, and Madam Pomfrey deserved them. She did not look around, but from the soft sounds among those gathered, she wasn't alone.

"Godric himself might have worded it thus, and when the Hat placed Poppy in Gryffindor, it Sorted truly. I recalled this conversation vividly a few years after, when Poppy applied for the open position of Hogwarts Matron, and I was delighted to take her on. It is in no mean part due to her tireless efforts these past twenty-two years that Hogwarts' reputation for student safety has remained the envy of Europe."

"If she were here today to advise us, I believe she would tell us to seek what comforts we can find, for grief is a wound as deep as any other, as important to heal, even if the best treatment is slow. I believe she would tell us that leading long, healthy lives would be the _best_ way to honor her memory. Hogwarts, and over a thousand of her students, present and past, owe much to Madam Poppy Pomfrey. Her loss is felt keenly, and she will not be forgotten." The portrait of Madam Pomfrey dabbed at her eyes a bit with a corner of her apron and gave a brief, tremulous smile in the Headmaster's direction, along with a single sharp nod.

People getting murdered - people dying _in general_ \- was wrong, Hermione decided, her tears still flowing freely even as determination firmed into her expression. The world, indeed, _ought_ to be better, and it didn't matter how hard it was, or whose responsibility it was _supposed_ to be, or even how old you were.

It was time to fight.


	17. Lavatorial Correspondence

Hermione did not rush back to Ravenclaw Tower after the memorial, though she did not dawdle either - it was nearly curfew. A couple of groups of older Ravens were making their way back in the same direction, talking quietly. Roger Davies was walking alone, looking morose. Hermione would've liked to say something to him, distract him a bit, but given the mood she was in, she wasn't sure she could keep herself from blurting out what she suspected about Madam Pomfrey's death. And despite her newfound determination to do something about it, she still wouldn't do anything precipitous without _trying_ to get a better understanding of the consequences from her older self. So she just measured her pace so as to stay behind him, out of his view, and felt quietly bad about it.

As she walked, she tried to decide what her criteria were going to be for acting or not acting, depending on what she learned. When Hermione read fiction, she'd begun to mildly prefer science fiction over fantasy after the age of five or so, when her critical thinking skills had developed to the point of distraction. But in either genre she'd encountered various ideas on the "stubbornness" of changing timelines, in fictional worlds where that was even possible. The mysterious notes had mentioned the term "backlash", which rather implied _some_ consequence. If there was somehow some _guaranteed_ moral consequence that outweighed apprehending a murderer and getting justice for Madam Pomfrey, like someone random dying, or some _other_ murderer going free, obviously she wouldn't choose that. If it was a personal consequence, like _her_ dying...Hermione liked to think she was the sort of person who would give her life to save another, but that sort of thing tended to happen in the moment, in emergencies - she suspected it would be much harder to do in a premeditated way. And she couldn't help wondering about the ultimate outcomes - if she could save _more_ people _later_ , by _not_ dying...but she wasn't at all sure if that line of thinking was morally defensible or just rationalization.

But that was all in the event Older Hermione could convince her that there were _guaranteed_ consequences, and Hermione wasn't sure how likely that was. Given how Time _ought_ to work, with cause and effect still intact even if effects sometimes now preceded causes...either changing Time ought to be simply _impossible_ , because things happening other than the way in which they'd already been observed to happen was just upending the definition of the word "happen", or if the universe was a many-worlds sort, changing Time ought to be utterly unpredictable, with any significant change causing uncountable knock-on changes down the line, some of which might be good and some of which might be bad. But the existence of magic sort of threw those theories into disarray, because now things that weren't organic were allowed to somehow have agency of a sort... _Accio,_ and wands, and Hogwarts itself. Who was to say that fundamental parts of reality couldn't as well? Or - far more to her liking - that there was some hidden metaphysical principle that stabilized Time in a universe that allowed it to be fiddled with, but which might nevertheless be understood if you worked at it? And neither of those theories explained the references to "erasing" a person, which implied that someone had been removed from Time, but in some way that people still _remembered_ them, or how would anyone realize in the first place, and that didn't seem to make any logical sense at all.

By the time she reached the tower, she hadn't come to any particular conclusions - there were still too many things she didn't understand about the situation. And now she had to pay attention to figuring out the mechanics of her "conversation". Most of the Ravenclaws were curious by nature, so just sitting in the common room or her bedroom and repeatedly taking small doses of a potion interspersed by bouts of writing - and possibly visibly nodding off for some length of time - seemed bound to attract questions. She could try to do it under the covers, but she didn't think she could manage to avoid exciting notice that way either. It'd have to be the dorm bathroom - there were three stalls and three tubs for five girls (Hermione had no experience with boarding school, and did not realize how luxurious this was), so even if she took a long time in one stall it wouldn't cause serious problems, and if anyone asked she could just say she was having stomach problems, which was still true. In the end she went ahead with that plan, and added a decision to wait until the rest of her dorm-mates were settling down to sleep to make disruptions even less likely.

It hadn't been mentioned in Madam Wainscott's instructions, but while she was waiting for everyone to go to sleep, Hermione managed to find some references to Liquid Sheep in the Tower Library, and there didn't seem to be a minimum effective dose. So she'd just take two drops in water at first and see how far that got her, extending it if necessary. Possibly also decreasing the amount of water gradually, or the fact that she was doing this in a bathroom would become convenient for inconvenient reasons. She had realized, of course, that if her other self was inclined to, this plan would allow her to just take more drops and extend her own control indefinitely, but she'd already demonstrated she could put Hermione to sleep if she wanted, so it didn't seem like too much of a risk.

Finally, everyone seemed to be settled. Hermione, in her nightgown, slipped as quietly out of bed as she could, fetched all her materials - which she'd taken the precaution of placing into a toiletries bag in advance - then padded into the bathroom. She filled one of the common water pitchers from the sink and took it with her into a stall. Perched carefully on a toilet seat, stall door firmly closed and latched, she wrote out her opening argument.

 

> _I'm presuming from what I've already seen that you can see and hear everything I do. If that's not the case, please correct me, and I'll be more verbose, but for the moment, I'm going to continue. I am_ _strongly opposed_ _to letting the matter of M.P. go unaddressed, and in a lesser sense, all the various other similar things that haven't happened yet - which come to think of it I'm not sure you know I know about, since I didn't "see" them per se - what happen(ed/s) to one of the W.T, T the colorful Hufflepuff, and the scruffy man, D the house elf, "M.E", P.D., and the student with H when he talked about V, plus what you did to our parents. I understand there are dangers involved in Time, but it's not illegal for you to talk about it with me anymore since I already know, or at least not more illegal than you not turning me in, in any case - and yourself, since I learned about it from you. So I need you to explain to me your_ _reasons_ _for thinking it better to not do anything - and please, do so assuming I'm capable of understanding, which I ought not to need to mention since you're me, but I honestly am not as sure of your judgement as I might've expected to be under the circumstances._

Hermione reviewed what she'd written, poured a half glass of water, then carefully measured two drops of Liquid Sheep into it and stirred thoroughly. She put everything but the quill and paper down, and held the latter firmly under her hands on her lap, leaning back carefully so hopefully she wouldn't slide or fall as she fell asleep - she wasn't sure if her other self would be able to take over quickly enough. Hermione took a deep breath, let it out, then downed the glass in a couple of gulps. She set the glass on the floor and reached into her bag to extract her watch - a lovely silver spring-wound one her parents had purchased for her when Hermione's early reading had revealed that digital watches wouldn't work properly at Hogwarts - to check the time, then put it back down.

It took a bit longer than she'd expected - maybe because she was using a smaller dose - but soon Hermione felt her eyelids growing impossibly heavy, her thoughts warm and foggy, and then for a time she thought nothing.

o-o-o

When her eyes opened again, she didn't feel particularly groggy, and there was extra writing on the paper. But first things first. She checked her watch - ten minutes, minus maybe three for falling asleep, which was good...even if she had to spend all night she should get at least 50 exchanges, minus a bit for any time she took reading, thinking and writing her own responses. Only after that was taken care of did she read the response.

 

> _First, I have to apologize for all of this, sincerely. It isn't precisely my fault - though I ought to have been able to prevent it - but it's_ _definitely_ _not your fault. I can understand the mildly antagonistic attitude you've had towards me, and under the circumstances I can't blame you. You seem a lot more persistent and capable than I remember myself being at your age, but then I had less serious problems to deal with, at least at first. In any case, please believe me when I say that I only want to do what's best for everyone - you included - given what's already happened. I'm going to explain everything I think I can as part of that...there's not a lot of time for anything else at this point._
> 
> _Second, the odious T.N. is entirely correct, more than he knows. No matter what happens in this conversation, no matter what you decide, I_ _implore_ _you_ _not_ _to give any further hint to_ _anyone_ _that you know_ _anything_ _relating to V other than what an intelligent first-year might read on her own (and obviously, destroy these notes after we're done, but I hope that had been your plan already). Even to any Professors. There is an Art called Legilimency, known - among others - to some former and current D.E., which allows a very skilled witch to read someone else's thoughts. You should also try not to bring such things to mind when you're around other people, particularly not while making eye contact. And yes, I know that will be harder now that I've mentioned it, but there are techniques - look up Occlumency. It's going to take a very long time to learn without a good instructor or someone to practice against - and Hogwarts isn't likely to make one available to you for years without you explaining why you need it - so I suggest getting started now. But Occlumency skills are not common even amongst adults, so anything you reveal could thus be traced back to you, even if an otherwise responsible person fully intended to keep your secrets carefully._
> 
> _Third, you do not - or at least I did not - turn 'evil' at some point in the future. What I did for our parents was to_ _protect_ _them, it was almost certainly necessary, and_ _everything was fixed later_ _. Please take that into account when evaluating my moral compass. I am not sure what's going on with O. - I don't approve of what he did to you, but I've known him to be a moral person, and it seems all wandmakers are a bit peculiar, so I'm inclined to give him the benefit of the doubt for now. Try not to hold it against Memory Charms in general - yes, they can be used in abusive ways, but likewise the opposite - like almost any magic, they are a tool, and any moral weight comes entirely from the user._
> 
> _So, on to actual arguments. Meddling with Time is dangerous in two ways. First, the H.R.C. (on which the T.T. is based) works in a very specific way, which is actually in some sense consistent with the muggle laws of physics. You haven't read it yet, but owl your parents to get you a copy of an issue of Physical Review D from last year - 42 (6) - the paper you're looking for is "Cauchy problem in spacetimes with closed timelike curves" - I looked it up myself, years later, for various reasons. The gist is, for areas of space-time where the future and the past are allowed to interact, no physical solution is_ _possible_ _which is not self-consistent (i.e. you can't "cause" anything retroactively that wasn't going to have happened already, there are no "changes"). A naive person might think that makes it safe, but it really, really doesn't. The end result of a situation like that is that if you_ _try_ _to change something, you are_ _going to fail_ _, you just can't necessarily predict how or why. The normal laws of probability don't apply, because any ostensibly possible outcome where you make a change_ _isn't_ _possible anymore, and thus all the otherwise unlikely things that are left get "promoted" to inconveniently likely indeed. Think about it, I'm sure you can imagine some examples._
> 
> _Even then, in practice these events tend to be_ _more_ _unpleasant - even fatal - than you'd expect from appropriately adjusted random chance, which is why they're called "backlash". The stock explanation you get in the Ministry T.T. pamphlet is that Time doesn't like meddling, and "punishes" people for trying it. Myself, I think it might just be a sum over lifetime probabilities...if you're the kind of person to try it in the first place, one very unlikely event that nips things in the bud right off - by killing you or scaring you sufficiently - is actually more likely overall than a combined series of slightly implausible events that are forced to keep you from succeeding over and over again. But regardless of the explanation, backlashes are verifiable, and well-documented._
> 
> _Now, as you've no doubt just objected while reading the first part, none of that may necessarily apply here, because changes_ _have already happened_ _, plus you've read the anecdotes about Erasure. This is where I get onto less solid ground, but that'll have to be in the next response, because you're starting to wake up, and I'm honestly not sure what would happen if I took more Liquid Sheep while I'm the one steering - better to stick with your protocol._

It was her own handwriting again, and it _sounded_ like her. She hadn't been certain about her theories, but this did seem like confirmation. Unless it was someone else successfully _pretending_ to be her, which given the whole _mind-reading_ thing she'd just been informed about was actually _more_ likely than she'd have thought previously. But if that were the case, then whoever it was ought not to have told her about it, since it made her more likely to question it. Unless that was just to establish trust and help sell the ruse…

Hermione frowned and abandoned the train of thought. She decided to set aside theories of deception unless something specifically made them seem more likely, since it was clear she couldn't logic her way to a conclusion without some actual evidence - and she'd read The Princess Bride.

The bit about the Hour Reversal Charm seemed to make sense, though Hermione wasn't sure what happened to free will in a universe like that. While she certainly could imagine an infinite number of ways for attempts to change the past to fail "coincidentally", there were certain self-referential situations that didn't seem to fit...like seeing a future version of _yourself_ doing something, and then deciding quite specifically _not_ to...what would then _make_ you do it? Maybe you simply couldn't make that decision, because any situation in which you would have actually decided to wouldn't have been allowed to happen in the "first place" - you just wouldn't have cast the spell for some reason in the future.

And the last bit was _also_ correct, in that Hermione had immediately noticed the HRC part was instructive but not relevant, since - at least from Older Hermione's perspective - changes _had_ happened. She bit her lip a bit in concentration as she added another note of her own.

    

> _I'm trying to give you the benefit of the doubt. I suppose if you hadn't been through what I had, Memory Charming our parents wouldn't seem so bad if you had some good reason. But don't think I haven't noticed you haven't actually given me any demonstrably relevant reasons yet. Oh, and what good is not telling people about V or guarding my thoughts when Mr. Odious (thank you for that, I shall think of him as nothing else from now on) already knows and indeed has a written copy of some of them?_

Hermione added three drops to slightly less than a half-glass of water this time, and waited. Sleep came more quickly this time, but slowly enough that she had time to marvel - a bit wearily - at how bizarre her life had become, even compared to a week ago, let alone three months.

o-o-o

After waking again and checking her watch, Hermione saw about twelve minutes had passed that time, and more writing had appeared. She swiftly read the new lines.

    

> _Thank you, I'll take what I can get._
> 
> _I'm not sure how smart Mr. Odious is, and thus how likely it is that he's taken what we'd consider logical precautions against theft and/or Memory Charms, but it's probably not worth the risk. Considering his family, and his House, I'm afraid to say that what P suggested might actually be safest - find some counter-leverage on him and make it in his own interests to keep quiet about it. He might even admire you for it, if it's done well, not that I think you ought to be making friends with him, or any Slytherins for that matter._
> 
> _Continuing on with the previous discussion - the H.R.C. (and T.T.) is not the only means of interacting with Time, it's just the only one even_ _hypothetically_ _predictable enough to be considered sane to use. What happened to me - and in turn you - is one of the other ones. And I admit I don't understand it at all - it involved some non-human magic, plus I think_ _another_ _thing the Department of Mysteries studies beyond Time. I am not an Unspeakable - I thought there were better uses for my time than research which by definition almost no one ever learns about or benefits from, although I admit I'm questioning that decision now even more than I used to. Though if I had gone down that road, I wouldn't have found myself in this situation anyway. I also don't understand how Erasure works. It doesn't seem to make logical sense, but a lot of magic doesn't, I'm afraid. It's admittedly possible the reports of Erasure were entirely fabricated by the Ministry in another effort to discourage the use of Time magic - it wouldn't be the most questionable thing they've ever done by far. But I will note that there have been a discouragingly large number of Dark wizards and witches throughout history, many of them quite obviously psychotic, and not a single one has been recorded to have meddled with Time, not even to prevent their enemies from being born or similarly obvious things. If someone like_ _that_ _thinks something is too dangerous to use, that really ought to say something, don't you think? In the end, the safest assumption seems to be, if you attempt to use Time in anything but the simplest and most predictable ways, it will not go well. I obviously can't prove it...but ask yourself, does the magical world _ _look_ _like it ought to if people were able to change Time safely?_

Hermione didn't particularly approve of the remark about not making friends with Slytherins, though it _was_ hard to argue in Mr. Odious' case. And she was surprised how much ignorance her older self was admitting with respect to non-standard Time magic. But even if it made her trust her honesty a bit more, it did not seem like a strong argument. There were too many unknowns. Besides which, even if you accepted something like the "perversity of Time", the details of how it even worked were unclear ...for example, _Hermione_ wasn't from the future, wasn't trying to change her _own_ past, it was all still ahead of her - couldn't that just as well mean anything she decided wouldn't apply in the same way? Or was everything "infected" by the initial disruption, whatever it had been, each event in turn, ad infinitum?

She jotted down her response.

    

> _That still doesn't seem good enough, there's too much uncertainty. And the fact that Time doesn't appear to be getting changed is almost entirely meaningless...if Time were changed properly, safely, you wouldn't_ _expect_ _to see anything at all. Yes, I suppose I might hope the world would look better than it does, but we don't know how it might've looked otherwise, maybe this is much better...plus, suppose Time is being used by multiple people with_ _different_ _opinions on what's ideal, couldn't you end up with some sort of consistent vectored average?_
> 
> _Would you please explain exactly how this whole thing happened to you, to the best of your knowledge? And in your notes, you mentioned someone else possibly having "come back too", T.D. - is this my partner from Defence? Won't she change too much even if I don't?_

She took another dose and impatiently waited for sleep.

o-o-o  

  

> _I see what you mean...the observable evidence could have a selection bias, because Time may affect what's actually observable? But I still think the risk is too great, since the scope of harm is effectively infinite._
> 
> _And I'm sorry, but I'm not going to give you the details...given your arguments, I can't conscience the risk of you trying to replicate them. All I will say is that there was an accident involving an unfamiliar magical substance. Someone else was present at the very end who I_ _think_ _was that T.D., but I'm not certain, it all happened very quickly and I hadn't seen her for a few years - and regardless, I don't_ _know_ _that she was actually included, that was just speculation. And knowing myself, I'm sure that you could probably research it even without any other details, but I urge you not to. It was powerful, barely controlled magic, triggered in almost certainly the wrong way, and the odds of it going the same way twice are beyond astronomical. It's entirely possible it killed me, and I suspect it may have somehow done_ _even worse_ _damage on top of that - but I won't explain that either, so please don't bother asking._
> 
> _In my opinion, Miss Davis shouldn't be relevant to your decision - even if a similar thing did happen to her, I've taken certain steps to minimize changes as a result. Steps which weren't options in your situation. Again, I apologize, I know this is going to frustrate you and not help our relationship, but it's not up for debate._

Hermione stared at the writing, frustrated almost to the point of saying a rude word. She'd _sworn_ to herself that when she was older, she would never, _ever_ treat someone like some adults - her parents included, on occasion - had treated her...as if her thoughts, her opinions, were of no conceivable value, because she was a _child_. And now here she was, doing it to _herself_. True, it wasn't _quite_ the same...if anyone had the slightest chance of holding that position and it actually being _accurate_ , it'd have be a future version of herself...but even so, it didn't feel good at all.

Her quill stabbed at the paper.

   

> _Wow. Nice to know I grow up to be a hypocrite. I hope whatever you convinced yourself was okay to do to Tracey wasn't unduly influenced by your opinions of Slytherins in general._
> 
> _In any case, you_ _still_ _haven't convinced me. Of course, since I'm only a child, it wouldn't be surprising if I got all petulant and just stopped listening to you entirely, but I'll go ahead and try to set an example of reasonable behavior for you and let you keep trying anyway._

Hermione stirred more drops into another glass of water with such vehemence that she almost spilled it, and with her bristling thoughts, it took a good five minutes for her eyes to droop closed.

o-o-o

Hermione rubbed her eyes as she awoke - they felt puffy and bleary. She also actually felt a little sleepy still this time, and looked at her watch curiously. Over half an hour? It didn't look like _that_ much extra writing had appeared on the paper. Maybe she'd just been giving it extra thought? At any rate, the nap seemed to have helped Hermione's irritation, and now she was just deeply weary, rather than angry. She was sure she could work herself back up if she wanted to, but she recognized that wasn't a helpful impulse, and she suppressed it, instead returning to reading the new notes.

    

> _Very well._
> 
> _Given that what I've already said isn't enough, I do have a more consequentialist argument - specific to Madam Pomfrey, but indirectly applicable to everything else I'm sorry you're now burdened with. The situation with V is deadly serious. We managed to come through it with honestly a lot less loss than we had any right to expect. Certainly, we owe our success to skill, hard work, and sacrifice. But also a great deal of_ _luck_ _. The more things change from how I remember them, the more likely it seems some of that luck won't go our way. The person I strongly suspect is responsible for Madam Pomfrey is, and will be, responsible for other things - some very bad, but others which influenced other critical people in critical ways. Leaving him to continue much as he might have, with Madam Pomfrey on top of everything else...yes, it's horrible, there's no other word for it...but it's still the best I can think of, and in that case, he_ _should_ _receive his just desserts in the end._
> 
> _I can imagine your counter to that, because I've considered it myself - all of the advance knowledge I have, in the hands of the right people now, ought to be able to make up for that uncertainty. Who needs luck when you can cheat? And if this were just a Prophecy, I might say yes...though there are dangers in relying on prophecy too - you really can end up causing what you're trying to prevent - but most prophecy seems to have some uncertainty "designed" in, and ignoring them would be foolish._
> 
> _But this is where everything else comes back in. Relying on unknown Time magic, and the very strong possibility that because of it events will go in the opposite direction we want, even perversely so?_ _We'd_ _be responsible for_ _all_ _the consequences, and things could have gone much, much worse than I remember them - suffering for all of Britain, maybe the entire world, muggles included. Do you really think you can live with that on your conscience? I don't think I could, and I've had to do worse things than Memory Charms._
> 
> _Even given your feelings on this sort of thing, if I could just safely wipe all of this from your mind and hope for the best, leave you as I "found" you, I probably would. But I can't. Besides, it's only barely more morally defensible than me just taking control completely, which I'm_ _also_ _not going to do, no matter what you decide. In the end, this is your life, not mine. I'm just trying to give you the best advice I can and hoping you make the correct decision...which may not be the logical thing for me to do, but feels like the_ _right_ _one._
> 
> _I truly wish I could help more, but that's all I can tell you, really, and I sincerely hope it helps more than it feels like it has. Either way, I wish you the best of luck, and as happy a life as you can find._

The new section ended with her full name, signed with an elegant flourish. Hermione leaned back and set her head against the cool stone of the bathroom wall, closing her eyes.

_This is really, really unfair,_ she thought, more plaintively than angrily. There should be a decision which was both _right_ and _best_ , but instead she seemed to have only two choices, equally uncertain and full of risk, not just because she wasn't _allowed_ to have all the information that seemed necessary, but because some of the information simply didn't _exist_.

She could do what felt right to _her_ , to help people now - in every way she knew about - and risk unconfirmed but legitimately terrifying temporal consequences. Or do _nothing_ as, somehow, the _Gryffindor_ version of her was advocating. And try to live with the secret, the regret, as bad things inevitably happened and she wondered if she _might_ have prevented them. All in the _hopes_ that Time would somehow of its own accord get back on track so, _best-case_ , things "worked out" and only a _few_ good people ended up dead, but which given the changes already, honestly didn't seem at all guaranteed either.

Hermione's heart sank as she suddenly realized _why_ the decision was being left to her. What her other self had said about there not being a lot of time, not taking control completely, what the notes had said about her _slipping_. She was going to go away, to let herself "die", for lack of a better word. Which on the face of it appeared extremely ethical, brave...even noble, and was probably intended that way. It was what Hermione had thought about earlier, sacrificing herself to save someone else, but in a deliberate, premeditated way. It made her feel humbled, and guilty, since she still wasn't sure _she_ could do the same thing, even if they were technically the same person. But in which case her older self wouldn't have to live with any of the long-term consequences either way, because she'd be gone, which meant ethically, it genuinely ought to be Hermione's decision.

But the other reason, that she'd grasped in the same moment, was the chilling suspicion that her older self, despite who-knew-how-much more education and experience, despite her seeming confidence in her opinions, _knew_ there was no good decision in practical terms...if she had, despite the ethical issues, wouldn't it have been _worth_ taking over permanently? Even if it effectively "killed" her younger self, to make _certain_ things went as they should, if the stakes were as high as she believed? So, lacking enough justification for taking the responsibility herself, her older self was abdicating the whole thing to _her_ , and in that light, the act didn't seem very noble at _all_.

The not-quite-twelve-year-old girl found her cheeks were wet again, but unlike at the memorial, this time she was almost certain she was crying for both of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, so gloomy! I promise this is just the darkness before accepting hero's call, and from here on out will be climbing upward, tooth and nail, slide rule and wand. ;)  
> Edit: Thanks to /u/rational_username for catching a doubled word!  
> And /u/nikic for the "Letters" that snuck in to Physical Review D, despite my explicit check. I blame Gregory Benford. ;)


	18. Responsible

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay, life got busy again. But I'm still plugging away, as determinedly (if not perhaps as diligently) as our heroine. :D

o-o-o-o-o

"I'm just _saying_ , our first Astronomy class tonight is going tae be harder than it needed tae be, because _someone_ was banging around the bathroom at all hours last night, sniffling like a house elf with a head cold!" Morag's unnecessarily loud complaint cut through the fog of sleep, and Hermione sat up in bed, rubbing her eyes blearily.

The morning sun was streaming through the room's open curtains, and her dorm-mates were moving about, mostly dressed already - though in casual outfits, since Friday was entirely free except for the recently mentioned Astronomy class at midnight. Morag, seeing she'd finally managed to wake Hermione, smiled tightly, and Hermione sighed.

"I tried to be quiet, I'm sorry I disturbed you, Morag," she mumbled. The disagreeable girl sniffed sharply, but didn't otherwise acknowledge the remark.

"Good morning, Hermione," Padma said quietly, stopping by Hermione's bed. "Are you okay?"

Hermione considered the question. Last night had been equal parts depressing and frustrating. And while her older self's arguments had been presented lucidly enough, in the light of the morning, they _still_ didn't really seem to make sense.

She wondered if there might have been side-effects from whatever happened to send her older self's mind backwards through Time. Or possibly her own brain wasn't developed enough to 'emulate' O.H.'s full thought processes, so they were handicapped somehow? Or even while Hermione herself was sleeping, there still just wasn't quite enough 'spare' capacity? She'd have to ask Professor McGonagall exactly how one maintained consciousness after being Transfigured to a non-human form, or how ghosts managed to think at all. And then there was that bit her older self had included about possibly something _worse_ than being killed having happened to her, whatever _that_ meant. All of which only firmed Hermione's instincts to favor her _own_ judgement in this case.

But then what? Given the school's sealing, she suspected at a minimum the Headmaster had evidence of - or at least suspected - foul play. But if he did, he was no doubt already looking for the killer, and Hermione's information was so vague that it might not actually be helpful...the most valuable piece seemed to be just knowing it was murder in the first place. Even if she came clean, since there was no way to prove her story, the Professors might just chalk it up to that infuriating Confundus misinformation. And if they _did_ , there would be more unnecessary visits to Madam Wainscott, or they might even confine her "for her own good" since she wasn't ignoring her "delusions" as instructed, and then she wouldn't be able to help at all. From her reading, she knew the standards for involuntary commitment to St. Mungo's were higher than the equivalent in the muggle world - wizards in general seemed to have a much higher tolerance for what they deemed 'eccentricity' - but it did happen, and that seemed not yet worth the risk.

She could owl an anonymous letter to someone in the DMLE, but even if it were believed, she presumed it could cause a _lot_ of problems for Hogwarts - and she still wasn't sure if the Headmaster and whoever else was involved in the cover-up had good reasons for their actions. Hermione decided to hold that option in reserve...besides, it would also be far more likely to succeed with some verifiable evidence. There was always that journalist, Ms. Skeeter, who seemed all too likely to accept Hermione's suspicions at face value even without evidence, but that too could cause problems...suppose there was a public outcry, the school was opened to outside investigators, and _that_ was the thing that allowed the culprit to get away?

Then there was the issue of her older self's apparent intentions towards self-sacrifice. Objectively, if anyone would, _she_ ought to know whether or not there was any other way. On the other hand, she'd admitted she didn't really understand what had happened, and if her logic _was_ compromised for whatever reason, then could she really be considered responsible enough to make a decision like that, however much Hermione might ordinarily support someone's "right to die" from an ethical standpoint? Which meant on top of everything else, she felt obligated to try to find a way to rescue her, or at least help her make an unencumbered decision about it.

"Hermione?" asked Padma, looking concerned, and Hermione realized she'd just been sitting there staring and hadn't answered the girl's question.

"Sorry. I'm just...tired..." she said softly. Despite her quiet tone, Morag's eyes glittered from across the room.

"Aren't we all," she snipped, moving to the stairs. "Well, I'm going to breakfast, _coming_?" Mandy and Su, looking uncomfortable, moved to join her. "Padma?" prompted Morag when the other girl hesitated.

"I can wait," she offered to Hermione. Hermione shook her head.

"No, go ahead. I'm...not really hungry anyway..." Padma looked as if she wanted to say something, but just nodded, and followed Morag and the rest of the girls downstairs.

For a minute, Hermione just sat there and considered going back to sleep, but as daunting as her problems were, avoiding them wasn't the answer. She slid out of bed, then fumbled open the jar of chocolate-covered espresso beans, popping a couple into her mouth and chewing mechanically as she headed to the bathroom.

As she'd expected, by the time she'd cleaned up, brushed her teeth and put on some casual clothing, there was no chance she'd get to the Great Hall before breakfast was over. Instead, she just headed directly to the library.

o-o-o

Checking the school rolls had been a bust - there was no male student with the initials P.P. enrolled this year. Which implied that the murderer had been masquerading as a different student, or hiding in some other way. But after another hour of frustrating research - trying to find books with useful information in the perversely inefficient library - it turned out there were a _lot_ of ways to conceal or disguise one's self with magic, most of which weren't visibly obvious even if you knew what you were looking for.

Disillusionment or an invisibility cloak did often leave subtle visible disturbances. Reviewing her memory of the train ride, she didn't _think_ she'd seen any, but then it's hard to say if she would've noticed, particularly if she'd been moving herself at the time. It appeared that a Confundus Charm could convince you a person was someone else, though that seemed impractical, since you'd have to repeat it every time a new person saw you, and then what, Memory Charm everyone else who saw you casting the Confundus?

Whereas Polyjuice Potion, Self-Transfiguration and Metamorphosis were entirely dependent on individual skill - even a Metamorphmagus could be considered "skilled", since it was an inborn talent but required practice to develop - and could be effectively perfect, unless you knew the person being impersonated well and could spot inconsistent _behaviour_. But Hermione hadn't known _anyone_ well, and the killer didn't even have to be masquerading as a specific student, they might've just looked like a student in general. On reading the description of a Metamorphmagus' abilities, it seemed clear that's what Tonks' "trick" was. She might've been the killer playing a double-game, pretending to be someone pretending to be someone else...but Hermione wasn't sure what the point of that would've been above simply pretending to be someone innocuous, which made her think Tonks was probably just what she'd seemed - a helpful but bizarre recent Hogwarts graduate.

Then there was the other magical disguise, an Animagus transformation. That seemed almost not worth considering, since the process was apparently so difficult and dangerous that it was extremely rare. The Ministry actually required people who'd managed it to register, and there had been only seven in the past century - including Professor McGonagall, which certainly spoke to her dedication to leaving no aspect of Transfiguration unexplored. Though, the _reason_ the Ministry required registration was the somewhat odd presumption that people would otherwise be tempted to use an Animagus form for criminal activity - as if magic in general wasn't otherwise overburdened with opportunities for wrongdoing?

That bothered her, so Hermione dug deeper, and discovered that an Animagus form was _not_ detectable by any broad spell...the only way you could be sure was if you attempted to reverse the transformation, and that was itself a difficult spell, or compared the results of an inconveniently long series of Charms _while_ the person was transformed. And since there were Charms that could otherwise duplicate most of the benefits you'd get from being one animal or another, it meant that you needed a _really good reason_ to specifically attempt the Animagus process instead. It also meant that until someone was actually caught in the act you'd never know, so there could indeed be a much larger number of Animagi running around out there than the registry implied. Though again, probably not many, given how difficult it was.

None of this really helped her much. On the train, taking into account her efforts to help Neville, she'd encountered dozens of students and their pets, any one of which might've been the disguised killer. And while Trevor's repeated escape attempts _were_ a little suspicious now that she thought about it, there was nothing that linked the toad to Madam Pomfrey, unless he'd taken ill and Hermione just hadn't-

Taken ill. _Diseased_.

Hermione clutched at the library table as the blood dropped out of her head so fast, her vision swam and she swayed dangerously. Nurse Wainscott had said that the Headmaster and all the Professors agreed there weren't any _people_ in the hospital wing when the nurse had left Madam Pomfrey alone, nor had anyone _entered_ before the nurse returned.

But there had been a _rat_.

Because he'd bitten Malfoy's friend - _and been yellow at the time_ \- Scabbers had been taken to the hospital wing to be checked to make sure the bite might not have passed anything along. Hermione had even thought at first that he'd been killed by the same vapor that claimed Madam Pomfrey, and been so relieved when she'd learned he wasn't that she hadn't questioned it. But why _would_ Madam Pomfrey return the rat herself rather than have Ron come fetch him? And she would've presumably done any number of diagnostic Charms...maybe even the ones that would have revealed an Animagus. And if he, in desperation, took his human form to silence the witness to his disguise, would that count as "entering"?

 _But...that doesn't make any sense…_ Hermione rationalized, a bit desperately. _Ron said he'd been passed down from his brother. Sneaking into Hogwarts once is one thing, but why would someone live as a rat for_ _ **years**_ _?_ But hadn't one of the Twins also said that their father had arranged an exception for Scabbers 'ages ago'? She was almost certain she'd read that the lifespan of a natural rat was almost never longer than three years.

Her fingers whitened on the edge of the table.

Hermione had, years ago, accidentally left a shop with a book without paying for it - she'd been with her parents and had used her bookbag as a shopping basket, but when the time had come to make their purchases, she'd missed pulling one out to be rung up. When she eventually discovered the mistake at home, she'd been wracked with panic and guilt, and had considered all sorts of insane plans to cover up the "crime", including walking five miles back to the shop in the middle of the night to sneak it back in (somehow), or burying the book in the backyard (even then, destroying it had never occurred to her). Eventually, after a sleepless night, responsibility had won out and in the morning at breakfast she'd tearfully confessed to her parents. She was a bit taken aback that they only wanted to pay for the book - they seemed to think she had punished herself sufficiently via her own guilt. But even if she hadn't done it deliberately, it was _wrong_.

Hermione had _intellectually_ understood that some change to Time had resulted in Madam Pomfrey's death, and the source of that knowledge implied that it was probably something she'd been involved in somehow. But it was just an abstract part of the insane situation she'd found herself in, and she hadn't really dwelled upon it. But, now, upon realizing that - despite her immediate attempts to cast doubt on the conclusion - she had a plausible explanation of how her direct actions had _gotten a person killed_...the impact was devastating, and Hermione's mind nearly came apart at the seams.

Moving slowly and haltingly, Hermione swept her things into her bag and stumbled away from the table, out of the library. She might have vomited, but fortunately there wasn't anything left in her stomach to seek escape. She was barely thinking, let alone navigating, and it was only upon seeing the impressive ugliness of the gargoyle that she broke through the fog and realized where her legs had been taking her.

"Headmaster's office," she murmured, recognizing the guarded entrance from _Engineering Enigmas_. It was, all things considered, _long_ past time to talk to a responsible adult, and let someone else tell her what the right thing to do was. But the problems were the same - would he believe her, enough to investigate? Without taking the Time business into account, her suspicions were extremely circumstantial...and if she _did_ bring that up, either he wouldn't believe that either, or he _would_ , and then there'd be no going back, no hedging, she'd have to reveal everything.

Despite the sympathy she'd felt last night, Hermione _hated_ her older self a little bit for putting her in this position. Though she did notice that there was no attempt to stop her, no sense of sourceless panic - she really was on her own.

"I need to speak to the Headmaster," she said, her voice shaking, to the revolting gargoyle. The book had noted the entrance to the Headmaster's Office was protected by a passphrase, but Hermione had no way to know what it might be.

Nothing happened.

She tried again, this time with a hand against the stone statue, then her wand, but again nothing. Feeling frustrated, and a bit silly, she knocked on the stone, and received only mildly abraded knuckles for her efforts.

"Honestly, there must be _some_ way for him to receive unscheduled visitors…" she mused, rubbing her sore knuckles absently. Her voice was more steady this time, as her irritation beginning to mask her nervousness and guilt. Then again, he _was_ very busy, perhaps he was out. Or appointments had to be scheduled with the Deputy Headmistress?

Despite herself, the obstacle was giving Hermione an opening to second-guess her decisions. She could always come back later...and every second she delayed was another second the murderer might find some escape, or commit some other awful crime. Even if she went to another Professor, that still applied, and who knew how long it would take to convince them?

More and more, it felt like the genuinely responsible thing to do would be to get Scabbers securely captive _first_...then there'd be less chance of anything happening due to a delay, plus he'd be right there when she revealed her suspicions, and thus a lot harder for a Professor to refuse to check...

Hermione slowly walked away, leaving the motionless gargoyle behind, and began to seriously consider how a first-year witch might subdue a murderous adult Animagus, even if he was a rat the vast majority of the time.

The notion that it might not be possible did occur to her, but she dismissed it - she'd just have to be _creative_.


	19. Building a Better Rat-Trap

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Kudos to eagle-eyed alix33 for catching a plural possessive mistake way back in Chapter 1, a skipped word in Chapter 4 (I'd fixed it on Ao3, but not here), a bad apostrophe and hyphen in Chapter 5, and another plural possessive flub in Ch 8! Also, both "Apparation" and "Apparition" are used in the books - though the latter is used more than the former, I've decided to stick with "Apparation", to keep it more distinct from the common word, and to maintain form agreement with the verb (as in, say, exculpate/exculpation).
> 
> Edit: Thanks to \u\monstrousbird, for catching the cages\cases mistake I swear I fixed...stupid Memory Charms...
> 
> Edit 2: More thanks to somnolentSlumber, for noticing an extra comma, and the appropriate style for book titles, which I also could've sworn I looked up early on, but apparently not!
> 
> Edit 3: Thanks to JoseHood for remembering (and much chagrin on my part) that I sent Parvati to Hufflepuff this time!

o-o-o-o-o

The thing was, it was all well and good to _want_ to be creative, but she was still limited by the actual resources at hand. She didn't have any spells that were suited for an adult duel except perhaps the Disarming Charm, but unless one led with that against an unaware target, it was the height of optimism to expect to catch a trained opponent without a Shield that would easily block it. The few jinxes she knew wouldn't touch a Shield, and though she had a couple ideas for working around that, they were stop-gap measures at best. So despite her determination, as she roamed the halls of the castle, Hermione second- and third- and Nth-guessed herself.

She'd _sort-of_ tried to tell a single authority figure, and when that hadn't immediately worked, she'd given up. And as her adrenaline faded, she began to consider the possibility that her current sense of urgency might be based more on her own guilt and contrariness towards her older self's abdication of responsibility, than on the genuine strength of any arguments for avoiding delay.

Accordingly, she'd thought of a way she might refine her own plans while simultaneously at least _exploring_ the possibility that telling a Professor might go better than she imagined. She could get some tactical advice - couched in theoretical questions, obviously - while sounding them out a little. But the questions she needed to ask didn't seem quite natural enough for her ideal choices of confidant, Professor Flitwick, or Professor McGonagall, and she thought they'd be too likely to rouse suspicions.

But there _was_ a Professor whose _job_ it was to answer these sorts of questions, who seemed rather distractible in any case, and unlike the other two - as luck would have it - whose posted schedule suggested he had a free period at the moment.

When she arrived at his office, however, she hesitated before knocking, as it sounded like he was already meeting with someone - fragments of conversation were drifting into the corridor through the closed door.

"...can't...significant...imagine _him_...good excuse. ...perfect distraction...the bat has stopped...occupies them..." After a pause, Professor Quirrell's voice continued. "...as you wish. ...only meant...yes... _know_ I am."

While Hermione automatically tried to puzzle out the meaning of what she was hearing, she also stepped away from the door, since eavesdropping wasn't acceptable behaviour - for a moment she thought darkly of Mr. Odious, then remembered he hadn't been eavesdropping, and that had really been her own fault. In any case, she didn't have quite enough context to form any good theories about what the Professor was talking about. Though it _was_ rather curious that none of what she was hearing was stuttered. That might just be selection bias, though...actual stammers tended to be more quiet than the completed words surrounding them, so it could be that only the latter were making their way past the door? Or perhaps his issue was only with public speaking, and he was just more comfortable with whoever he was meeting with than speaking in front of a large class?

When she realized that she hadn't heard anything at all for some time, but no one had come out either, she stepped forward and knocked on the door.

"Professor Quirrell?" Hermione asked, hesitantly. The door opened, and Hermione nearly choked on the wave of garlic scent that surrounded her before she even saw the Defence Professor, who was actively adjusting his turban.

"Ah, M-m-miss Granger, how m-m-may I help you?" Hermione did not entirely succeed in resisting the urge to lean slightly to look behind him, but she didn't see anything regardless.

"I had wanted to ask a few questions about Defence, but if you're busy…"

"Oh, n-n-not at all, p-p-please come in," he said, standing aside so she could enter the office past him. He closed the door behind her.

There were a few small bookshelves, as well as a larger set of shelves with a collection of curious items, some of which were cages or glass cases containing small magical pests. Hermione sat in one of the two ordinary chairs in front of the desk, though her brow furrowed as she did so.

There was no sign of anyone else in the room, nor of another door by which the Professor's guest might have departed.

Hermione knew for certain whoever he'd been speaking to hadn't Disapparated away, as Hogwarts was permanently bewitched to prevent Apparation or Disapparation anywhere on the grounds - that was mentioned more than once in Hogwarts, a History. He might have been speaking to a portrait, but there were none on the walls - which was interesting in itself, as nearly every other vertical surface in the castle seemed to hold at least _one_ portrait.

She'd read about the Wizarding Wireless, though she'd understood it to be strictly a broadcast phenomenon, and not used for person-to-person communication...magical society seemed very attached to owls and letters. There'd been references to a "Floo Network" which was used for travel or occasionally used more like a telephone - the mechanics of how _that_ worked Hermione was a bit uneasy about - but there was no sign of a fireplace either...perhaps it had just been some specifically enchanted item she hadn't yet encountered.

Meanwhile, Professor Quirrell had taken the chair behind the desk and now cleared his throat expectantly.

"Oh, yes," said Hermione, suddenly remembering why she'd come. "Well, while I do appreciate your having added some more 'practical' Defence to our curriculum - however unfair it might have been for you to have been pressured so - it's still more... _recovery_ , than defence per se? Undoing things is all well and good, but if the person is still _there_ , doing _more_ things to you…" The Professor looked irritated for a moment, then thoughtful.

"Ah...yes. Someone hit you w-w-with a spell even... _I_ have n-n-not encountered, some v-v-variant on the S-s-seer's Hex, and you are understandably c-c-concerned about a repeat performance. What d-d- _did_ you see, if I m-m-may ask?" Hermione immediately dropped her gaze to her lap.

"Torture, death. I'd rather not talk about it, if that's all right?" she said, quietly. Which was true, but she was also being mindful of the warning she'd received about Legilimency, or otherwise revealing the details.

"Oh, of c-course, my ap-p-pologies," said the Professor, though to Hermione's mind he still sounded more curious than sorry.

"So...if I find myself outmatched, and I can't just run, what _are_ my options? There must be _something_?"

"In general, I would s-s-say you can only s-s-seek to increase your p-p-power. Those with _power_ can always imp-p-pose their will on those with less, or without...it is the w-w-way of the world." He sounded mildly wistful about this bit of philosophy, but not as _disappointed_ about it as Hermione would've hoped a Professor might.

"Professor, I'm _not even twelve yet_. I'm doing my best to learn all the spells I can cast - I've tried nearly four dozen now, including most of the Grade 2 spells" - his eyebrows raised slightly - "but a Shield Charm is even trickier, and apparently requires some magical analogue to strength, as do the spells that might _break_ a Shield, and everything I've read says that requires not just practice but simply _age_." She looked back up at him, her expression showing the genuine frustration she felt.

"Hmm. A d-d-dilemma indeed." He thought for a moment. "There is s-s-strength in numbers, of course, though s-s-some might say r-r-relying too much on others is ill adv-v-vised." Hermione shook her head.

"If, er, someone's got it out for me, I'd rather not put anyone else in harm's way." Professor Quirrell shook his head.

"Very n-n-noble, if not as l-l-logical as I might expect from a R-r-ravenclaw," he remarked, and now there was disappointment in his voice, cutting deeply where Hermione was most vulnerable. "You c-c-could borrow power from elsewhere, p-p-pre-enchanted items and s-s-such, though they merely exchange one s-s-sort of power - galleons - for another, and these t-t-too are unwise to r-r-rely upon…"

"That's a good idea, and I'll look into it, but owl-order takes time, and I-...I'm vulnerable _now_." The Professor nodded, tapping at his desk thoughtfully.

"T-t-tell me...do you know, or s-s-suspect, y-y-your enemy's identity?" Hermione dropped her eyes again. This was the opening she'd been watching for, and the way he'd asked…

"I...even if I did, considering the Hex, would anything I said be believed?"

"Ah? P-p-perhaps you have a p-p-point, though I think y-y-you may underestimate the p-p-propensity of a certain s-s-sort of self-righteous p-p-person to credit even improbable accusations made by y-y-young girls. S-s-surely you have read of the S-s-salem Witch Trials?" Hermione blinked at this. She had, of course, though aside from a brief mention in A History of Magic (which perhaps would have been better titled "A Limited History of Magic with a Particularly Narrow Focus on Europe, Particularly the British Isles"), she hadn't yet looked deeply into the events from the perspective of magical society. "But that is n-n-not what I meant," the Professor continued. "If y-y-you know your enemy, you m-m-may tailor your approach...use subtlety, deception, surprise...do not w-w-wait to be attacked, strike first, come at him in a w-w-way he will not exp-p-pect. Or...lay a t-t-trap he cannot resist." His voice became cautious and quiet, his eyes uncertain. "Historically, it is how m-m-most truly powerful Dark Wizards have b-b-been defeated...even temporarily."

Now Hermione openly stared. It almost sounded like he was _egging her on_ , which was not at _all_ how Hermione imagined a Responsible Adult acting, and she felt an underlying sense of unease at the turn the conversation had taken. But then again, she _had_ asked, and she'd said herself that thinking about this sort of thing _was_ his job, and talking about powerful Dark Wizards having been defeated was oddly comforting, as it put her own problems in perspective. She was sorely tempted to just tell him her suspicions, add in all of the circumstantial evidence she _could_ reveal, and hope for the best. Some of what he'd mentioned - surprise, for one - she'd already thought of, but a trap was definitely a good idea. He'd sounded a lot more capable during this conversation than he had in any of the classes they'd shared so far, and despite his speech impediment, his spellcasting _did_ seem quite good. And she would feel _much_ more comfortable confronting a possible murderer with a trained adult wizard present.

But after a moment's thought, Hermione decided not to bring up her theory with him directly. Yes, her older self's concerns were still suspect, but in this case they aligned with her own uneasiness about the conversation. Still, the nervous man did seem somewhat pitiable, and she couldn't suppress an urge to try to cheer him up.

"All right, then. I think you've given me plenty of things to think about, and I'm sure they'll be helpful. I really appreciate you taking the time, thank you."

"Of c-c-course, Miss Granger. And w-w-we've only had one week of classes, r-r-remember...I think, when all is s-s-said and done, this school year w-w-will be seen as having been _more_ than adequately instructive."

He smiled broadly.

o-o-o

The portrait of the large woman - her name was Gloria, and while Hermione had heard even Professors refer to her in a blatantly insensitive way, she refused to do so herself, since portraits were clearly sentient if not sapient - which guarded the Gryffindor common room had informed Hermione upon being asked that Ron (and Harry) had gone off some time ago, and further inquiry had revealed that she had overheard them say something about tea with Hagrid. Hermione had considered going off after them, but she needed to handle things delicately at first, lest she lose the element of surprise.

So instead, despite her fading sense of urgency, she decided to just wait by the portrait for Ron to return. She would've liked to practice some spells in the interim, but using magic in the corridors _was_ against the rules - if poorly enforced - and there were no classrooms near enough by for her to be sure of not missing the boys returning. Instead, she just reviewed some of her basic spell experimentation notes (partially in an attempt to distract herself from her increasing nervousness and guilt).

She'd discovered that certain spells "stacked" - to wit, multiple Levitation Charms would require less effort to lift the same thing, or allow a heavier thing to be lifted with the same effort - though since the spell was actively sustained that of course required multiple casters, unless one could somehow contrive to cast from a wand in each hand, but it wasn't clear if that might not just halve the efficiency of each spell. She had tried using the Engorgement Charm on something multiple times, though, and it would grow larger each time by the same proportion. By measuring with a good metric ruler she'd estimated that proportion to about 78.5%, which was close enough to Pi/4 to make her suspect that might be the exact ratio, and seemed like an intriguing clue about the internal workings of magic.

Other spells, however, like the Impervius Charm, or the Floating Charm, didn't seem to multiply their effects with repeated castings, but instead simply retained the strongest individual effort they'd been cast with. Hermione wondered if that was due to elements of the spell's construction, or more a factor of certain specific spell effects being more or less conducive to reinforcement, but she hadn't tried enough spells to have noticed any obvious patterns yet. She _had_ discovered that the Floating Charm, like the Levitation Charm, did require at least a minor level of sustained concentration, it just didn't need the constant wand attention the latter did. But accordingly, it couldn't be directed beyond the initial casting, all things did was float at a height proportional to the strength of the Charm and inversely proportional to their weight. Which in turn suggested that the spell wasn't blocking gravity or mass - then height ought to be largely irrelevant - but rather creating a field of force in a _specific_ relationship between the item and the floor (because putting something else underneath a floating object didn't make it any lighter, or interfere with the original object). That much seemed borne out by her original test of it on her trunks, but she'd have to check the edge cases, see if it was really relative to the floor, or "ground level", or the nearest solid surface below the object at the time of casting.

Even as she re-read her notes and jotted down further observations, sitting against the corridor wall, she couldn't quite keep her mind occupied enough to avoid further self-recriminations. Yes, her theory might seem insane to someone's objective judgement, but surely the matter was serious enough that - presented directly with the rat and a sincere accusation - a Professor would extend the benefit of the doubt long enough to at least _test_ it?

But despite Professor McGonagall's counter-example, it was all too easy to imagine being marginalized, ignored, dismissed. Even in the case of the Transfiguration Professor - who seemed unusually fair-minded - she hadn't _actually_ reconsidered her own opinions until presented with strong _evidence_ of Hermione's claims. So more than just securing the murderer, she really needed something firm enough to _demand_ attention.

o-o-o

After quite a while of waiting and review, the outline of a plan began to gel in her mind. She'd need to test a couple of spell interactions, and borrow something she'd seen from one of the older Ravenclaws... She even thought she could make the scheme _relatively_ safe...but there was an unavoidable element of risk in actively baiting someone who had already killed once to preserve his secret. She'd work out the details, but she'd continue to consider alternatives.

As was her occasional habit when doing some creative thinking, and since Ron and Harry _still_ weren't back yet - how long _could_ it take boys to finish having tea, anyway? - Hermione pulled a book from her bag that she'd already learned by heart. Somehow the act of re-reading often helped occupy her more linear thoughts while subconscious associative processes continued in the background until they had come up with something useful to report.

It was Hogwarts, a History, of course...the book that, in her early reading weeks ago, had given her the most inspiration, the most optimism, the most _wonder_ about what her life might become - even in the face of some of the other books which had covered less rosy topics. She sighed a bit wistfully about how drastically her life _had_ changed, and how it was still an open question of whether or not that would turn out to have actually been a good thing.

Hermione opened the book to a random page in the middle, and-

It was blank.

She turned the page, and the next two were blank as well. Baffled, Hermione riffled through all the pages. For a moment, it seemed the entire book was blank - and now examining it closely, it seemed a lot shabbier than she remembered it being, the binding was all cracked and even some of the pages were a bit loose...had someone switched her copy out as a prank? But no...in respectfully tiny script at the bottom of the inside cover, there was the line, "Property of Hermione Granger", just as she'd written it…

Just as she'd written it…

'When she first bought it in Diagon Alley' was the logical continuation to that thought, it was the first thing she did with _any_ book she bought. Even if it seemed a little wrong to deface a published book in any way, Hermione never intended to part with a single book she'd purchased, and putting down her name was a small gesture towards affirming that commitment, even if only to herself. Plus, it had discouraged other students from messing with her books.

It was the logical answer, but all the same, she couldn't _remember_ having done it. She'd _read_ the book, of course, she knew it by heart, so it must have had properly printed pages at one time. But the actual "ritual" itself, running her finger down the spine, around the edge, to lift the cover, write her name, and make the book _hers_ …

The obvious explanation presented itself, and she felt a low growl rising in her throat.

"I swear...by whatever God or Powers may or may not be listening or indeed exist, if I do _one_ thing, I will find a way to defend against, undo and _outlaw_ these awful, thrice-cursed, reprehensible, ought-to-be-Unforgivable _Memory Charms_!"

She'd only just begun to build up a proper outrage - helped by some pedantic part of her noting that had really been _three_ things, not one - when two heads poked around the corner of the corridor. They wore cautious expressions, which mostly relaxed when they saw Hermione.

"Blimey, Hermione," Ron started as they came around the corner and approached her, "we thought we heard...well, we couldn't make out the words, but it _sounded_ like somebody getting leaned on _hard_ by a Sly-"

"It sounded like you were upset," Harry interrupted, elbowing Ron, who looked at him, baffled. "Are you alright?"

"For your _information_ ," Hermione began, getting to her feet and letting the mystery of the book drop, both literally and figuratively, "I was only stating my _determination_ to do something about _one_ of the _great many_ things that seem to be conspiring of late to send me _utterly_ 'round the bend!" The boys each took an involuntary step away from her, but Hermione stepped even closer to Ron, her finger rising in admonishment. "And if that makes me 'sound like a _Slytherin_ ', I suppose that's just another piece of evidence that what _they_ have to deal with may be driving them completely out of _their_ minds as well!" The boy held his hands up defensively.

"I'm sorry! I just meant, you sounded _scary_ , that's all...I'd never _call_ someone a Slytherin, that'd just be…" he trailed off, apparently at a loss to describe the level of offence such an insult would constitute. Hermione stared, struck speechless at how vastly he'd apparently missed the point. Was he doing it deliberately? Surely no one could be that _consistently_ -

"Is it something we can help with?" asked Harry, mercifully interrupting her thoughts. Hermione took a few deep breaths to calm herself.

"No, I don't think so, but if I think of anything later I'll let you know. Though there is something else I'd wanted your help with. Both of you," she amended, trying to keep her tone positive as she reminded herself that she really _did_ need Ron's help, and that her plan might pose a _slight_ risk to his life - if less so than her own, and not much more than he had sharing a dorm with Scabbers anyway.

"Is it broomstick flying?" asked Ron. "I know Flying class starts next week, and I've only had a little practice at home but I guess muggle-borns don't get _any_ , so I'm sure I could give…" He trailed off, looking concerned, and Hermione quickly smoothed away whatever expression on her face must have produced his reaction.

"No, it's not Flying," Hermione said, calmly. "Though I appreciate the spirit of the offer. It's a matter...", she paused, then lowered her voice. "Well, it's really important, and maybe a bit dangerous, but I shouldn't talk about it in the open..." Hermione was gratified to see that this statement - which she'd taken some care to craft specifically to appeal to most boys' flighty romantic notions of adventure - had the intended effect. Their eyes widened and they instinctively leaned in closer.

"Is it whoever hexed you?" Harry whispered. "I've noticed a few things, and I know how it sounds, but I think there might be something going on with" - Hermione's eyes widened...had Harry actually come to the same place she had, by some other route? - "Professor Snape," he finished, portentously. Her eyes became less wide, but more confused. But she did not correct him, instead putting a finger to her lips and looking around meaningfully. Harry nodded apologetically. "An empty classroom?" Hermione shook her head.

"Someone else might walk in just as easily as we could, or listen at the door."

"We could go up to our room," Ron suggested, his own tone conspiratorial. "If anyone else's in there, I'll send 'em straight off, and if anyone does show up, at least they're a Gryffindor and you know you can trust 'em."

"That could work," Hermione agreed, nodding. Step one accomplished - get invited to their room without mentioning it at all. Throughout every stage she had to try to make sure she gave no sign of specific interest in Ron's pet, lest he catch wind of it even second-hand, become suspicious, and possibly act before she was ready. She might have brought Ron and Harry into her confidence, but even if she could trust them not to let anything slip, she was nearly _certain_ they would not then cooperate with the later stage of the plan where they were safe and she put herself in the most danger.

Hermione collected her things from the floor, and they duly escorted her up into Gryffindor tower - she was not particularly impressed with the password, but at least it was Latin - and Ron actually seemed a little disappointed that their room was empty when they arrived, and he would thus be unable to demand someone leave. Empty of people, at any rate - she did her best to avoid staring at the rat while not _looking_ like she was avoiding staring, but the possible-murderer was sleeping _on Ron's bed_ , and it was really all she could do to avoid commenting. Then again, would it be out of character for her _not_ to comment on a rat sleeping on someone's bed?

She avoided the issue by turning her back to him deliberately. This also allowed her to shift her bag so her body shielded it from _his_ view, and put her hand inside to grasp - but not withdraw - her wand. This was really the riskiest part, since she had to set out the bait, and he might panic, acting immediately instead of waiting for a better opportunity. Accordingly, Hermione watched Ron and Harry's faces closely - if there was any indication in their expressions that the rat on the bed behind her had suddenly become an adult wizard, she would dive to the floor while casting an Amplifying Charm at her own throat, then scream loudly and continuously for help, mentioning "Scabbers", "Animagus" and "P.P." specifically. In her judgement, without significant advance preparations, she had no chance in a duel against a trained wizard - particularly one without apparent moral compunctions - her best hope there would be that he would realize he didn't have time for Memory Charms or vengeance and would simply try to escape as quickly as possible. Just in case he _did_ get off a Memory Charm, she'd also made a note about this plan and stuck it into one of the books she'd been reading. She took a deep breath.

"So. I don't have any evidence yet of who is responsible - though I think I know how we might get some - but I believe Madam Pomfrey's death was no accident." There was a soft sound behind her, and though the boys' eyes did widen, their gazes didn't shift - her guess was that the rat had startled. "People who know her well just don't think she'd ever make a mistake like that."

"I dunno," said Ron, "Dumbledore himself said so…"

"He's also sealed the castle, you know - surely you've heard Lavender complaining about it? I think he must, like me, suspect. But I have an advantage he doesn't…" Their considering looks confirmed they _had_ been treated to Lavender's conspiracy theories about her wand, but at her last assertion, they showed renewed skepticism.

"Come off it...I mean, you're great and all, for a first-year, but this is _Dumbledore_ we're talking about...what can you do that he can't?" objected Ron. Hermione did her best to ignore the qualified compliment and continued laying the trap.

"Science," she said. "How muggles figure out how to do all sorts of surprising things without magic. Specifically, I know things about how living things are put together...some of which _must_ be constant, even under Disillusionment or Transfiguration...and the fact that we leave tiny bits of ourselves everywhere we go. If there _was_ a murderer, he or she was well-hidden, but unless they used _very specific_ cleaning Charms, those traces should still be there, even days later...and we could track them all the way to wherever the culprit is hiding." Hermione felt fairly bad about this part, since it was more than half made up - she had no idea if any genetic material stayed invariant under Transfiguration, among other things - but she resolved to straighten them out on the accurate science later. The most important part was that it sounded plausible to her quarry.

"You're talking about DNA?" Harry asked, while Ron looked between them, blankly. Hermione nodded. "I guess that could work," he said. "But wouldn't you need computers and machines and stuff that don't work at Hogwarts?"

"That's where magic comes in, and a bit of the danger. There's something called a Supersensory Charm, that can let you greatly improve or expand one of your senses, like see in all directions at once, or smell something burning in the oven from a neighbor's house a mile away. I think if I cast the spell just right, I could actually _smell_ the specific traces - though I'd need to be in the room alone at first, so it wasn't confusing with too many active sources - I'd need you two to get Madam Wainscott out of the Hospital Wing." This bit was also partially invention - there _was_ a charm like that in _Practical Household Magic_ , but Hermione would be rather surprised if it allowed the level of detailed discrimination she was describing. The part about needing to be alone was purely to provide an enticing scenario for the murderer to capture her, question her about DNA evidence and removal of the same, and then presumably Memory Charm her. It would be a risk for him, but not as risky as the murder itself.

"Huh," said Ron. "I guess, I know mum's used that spell before. And I'm sure we can get the nurse away, we'll just have to get one of us hurt somewhere close - but not _too_ close - and then get her to come running. That's not _too_ dangerous though, since we're actually _trying_ to get a healer there, only not too quickly?"

"Ah...that's not exactly what I was thinking, but I suppose," said Hermione cautiously. "But what I meant about the danger is that I did a bunch of reading, and if the Supersensory Charm is cast too strongly and you're not used to that level of sensation - and no human could be, really - it can produce odd effects...confusion, memory loss. That would be true for any person, but it's my plan, so I'm not going to let someone else to take that risk." Entirely made up, that bit, but it sounded plausible enough, she hoped. Hermione couldn't help holding her breath, this was the key moment...if she was forced to be more explicit, it could raise suspicions. A gift-wrapped _excuse_ for Hermione to have memory loss, plus one additional crucial opening...she heard more scrabbling behind her as the rat actually _tried_ to attract attention to itself, it all depended on Ron and Harry now.

"No offense, but I would've expected you to go straight to a Professor," said Harry, and Hermione cringed inwardly.

"I didn't think any of them would believe it. The science is pretty new, even to muggles," she replied quickly, with two separate truths that lied by implication.

"It's probably for the best anyway," said Harry, "what if it _was_ a Professor…" Hermione _really_ wanted to talk to Harry about where he'd gotten the notion that Professor Snape was 'up to something' - let alone murder - but her attention was all on Ron, who was moving past her in response to his rat's agitation. His face _seemed_ thoughtful. _Come on, Ronald, prove me wrong about you! Please,_ she thought fiercely, as if she could will the idea into his brain.

"Hey," said Ron, suddenly. "You said no _human_ , but what about Scabbers? He has a pretty good nose - he's always able to sniff out sweets and such...do you think that Charm might be safer on him? Even if he's not used to it enough, I'm not sure he'd really _notice_ if he had confusion or memory loss, he sleeps so much." Hermione spun towards him and her elation - that he'd voiced the idea both she _and_ the murderer had needed him to - was sufficient that she didn't even have to try to fake surprised enthusiasm.

"Ronald, you're brilliant! Of course a rat's nose would be so much better to start with, it's probably perfectly safe for him...and if _he_ doesn't smell anything, there's nothing there to smell." And that was step two - Scabbers had invited _himself_ along, and she'd planted various options he could feel confident about...just accepting the spell and pretending not to smell anything, or taking advantage of Hermione being alone with him to do something more active about her suspicions - not that she intended to give him much chance to get away with either. Ron was beaming, and she couldn't tell if she was imagining that the rat now in his hands looked pleased with itself as well. "I have to fetch a couple of things, meet me outside Gryffindor tower in, say...half an hour? We can do everything while almost everyone is in the Great Hall starting dinner."

She rushed down the stairs before they could say anything, then out of the common room, sprinting towards Ravenclaw Tower. She just needed to borrow a key item from an upper-year housemate, test the spells involved in her plan, and get back to Gryffindor Tower in less than thirty minutes. If the tests _didn't_ work, she could always fall back on contriving for a Professor to show up at the appointed meeting time, and when they did, insisting they test Scabbers on the spot. Professor McGonagall would probably be best in that case, but if it came to that, she'd take whoever she could get.


	20. Gang Aft A-gley

"All right," said Hermione, pausing outside a disused classroom. "Before we get go to the hospital wing, I think we should test my theory. If you'll give me Scabbers, I will turn around, then one of you - don't tell me who, and don't say anything - go in the classroom and pick two corners of the room randomly, walk to each, then come back. When you're done, I'll go in with Scabbers and test the spell - if he can tell which corners you went to, and lead me back to the right one of you, then we're in good shape." The Gryffindor boys stared at her in confusion.

"But...why don't we just test it in the actual _place_ , save some time and trouble?" asked Ron. Hermione shook her head.

"If it turns out not to be practical, there's no point in even trying it and risking getting in trouble with Madam Wainscott or anyone else. Also, this way we can _check_ the answer, because you two will know it, whereas in the hospital wing, we couldn't be sure it wasn't just a guess or something?" _Also, I needed to prep the room first, and that would've required an additional pretense to get Madam Wainscott out,_ Hermione added, silently. The boys looked at each other.

"Makes sense to me," said Harry. Ron shrugged, and handed over the rat - Hermione steeled herself carefully to avoid showing her revulsion, though again wondered if it might've been _more_ in character for her to be uneasy about handling a rat.

She also made a point of standing so that she couldn't see what the boys were doing, but angled slightly so that the rat - if he were so inclined - could in fact spy on them. Better to give him every opportunity to cheat now, to feel as smug and confident as possible in whatever he decided to do.

There were quiet noises behind her as the boys exchanged gestures to work out who would go in, followed by the sound of the door opening and closing, then doing so again after a brief delay. At the second door closing, Hermione turned back to face Ron and Harry.

"Ok, just wait here. It might take a little while, since I'm going to be very careful, so please be patient? Oh, here," she added as if it was an afterthought, pulling a quill and a scrap of paper out of her bag and handing them to Harry, "once I've gone in, write down which of you went inside, and which corners you went to - it's important in science to document everything as you're doing it." Harry nodded, though he glanced at Ron, which probably meant Ron had gone into the room, but then the blind nature of the experiment wasn't actually the point, after all. That taken care of, Hermione entered the room and closed the door behind her.

"Can I really trust them to wait, though?" Hermione asked herself quietly, deliberately forcing uncertainty into her voice - though this was not all that hard, considering. She withdrew her wand from her bag and aimed it at the door. " _Colloportus_ ," she said, making a tied-knot gesture with the wand tip. Throughout this process, she did not yet put Scabbers down. An Animagus transformation - indeed Transfiguration in general - conserved the location of the center of mass unless the accommodation of the process otherwise shifted it. But she obviously couldn't support the weight of an adult man with one hand, which meant if he reverted _now_ , he'd probably end up falling at least 30 centimetres or so to the floor, and Hermione was hoping he'd wait rather than risk turning an ankle or something. Either her guess was accurate, or his plans didn't suit changing yet, because the rat remained quiescent during this process.

When making her preparations, Hermione had picked the room partially due to its proximity to the Gryffindor common room, but also because it was a fully interior room and did not have any windows. She'd also carefully checked along the base of the walls around the room's perimeter for any chinks or holes a rat might squeeze through, and found none - thus the door was the only way in or out. She knew that if things went horribly wrong and the murderer somehow escaped what she'd planned - and had a wand - her simple Locking Charm wouldn't hold, but it would slow him at least a moment. While turning away from the door, she surreptitiously kicked what appeared to be an oddly-shaped collection of wood fragments about three inches high - it skittered on the stone floor and ended up roughly centered on the doorway.

The classroom only held a handful of desks and no table, so her path to the center of the room was largely unobstructed. Hermione glanced around, making sure everything was in place, took a breath to steady herself, then started Step 4. She couldn't help tensing as she set the rat down on the floor - this was his first good chance to try something - but for the moment he seemed content to play his part as she was playing hers.

"I'll have to go over the spell a few more times," she said, "I'm sure Ron won't mind if you have some biscuits while you're waiting…" She removed a pair of Bourbon creams from her bag, setting them down before the rat, then reached back in for _Practical Household Magic_ , all the time not letting go of her wand. Ostensibly this was to review the Supersensory Charm, but in actuality it was just a prop for a brief delay. Hermione watched carefully over the top edge of the book to see if the rat seemed at all suspicious, but he had begun devouring the chocolate-flavoured biscuits without hesitation.

In a little more than two minutes, he'd finished eating and cleaning his face and paws, and seeing Hermione still apparently muttering over her book, settled down patiently to nap. She waited as long as she dared, but if she waited _too_ long most of her planning would end up wasted, and plus the longer she waited the more tense she became - she wasn't sure she'd have the nerve to go through with it. Hermione took a few more breaths that she'd intended to be calming, but had little effect on her churning stomach. Her hand shook a little as she tipped her wand down past the edge of the book, but she held her breath, waited for it to steady...waited…

" _Emméno_ ," she said, with a double-flick of her wand, aiming the (non-Permanent) Sticking Charm at the rat's left forepaw, currently resting against the stone floor, his other paw crossed over it and his head atop both.

At once, the rat awoke, and - as she'd hoped - instinctively planted its other paws for leverage to try to free the first. Hermione immediately cast another Sticking Charm at the other forepaw, then each of the two rear paws for good measure, ignoring the rat's increasingly frantic squeaking. Hermione put the book back into her bag and kept her wand trained on her captive.

"You needn't bother - without a wand in hand, I'm pretty sure you couldn't get loose from even one of those, let alone four. Also, I know you're not a natural rat, and that you murdered Madam Pomfrey, probably because she discovered that too." Hermione tried to deliver this declaration in a tone of quiet confidence, but she found by the end her voice was a bit shaky. Her wand, at least, stayed steady enough, if not quite as steady as the proverbial rock. As for the rat, he had frozen, looking up at her by the start of the second sentence. By the end...the rat's form had begun shifting, growing. Hermione readied herself just in case it turned out her tests hadn't been rigorous enough, or the results couldn't be extended to an Animagus transformation...

But they had, and could, and she relaxed - slightly. The rat had become an adult man. It was hard to tell in his current posture, but it seemed like he was on the short side, balding, in casual robes that had deteriorated to the point that they were little more than rags. Even if he was short for an adult, he was decidedly rounded, and probably outweighed Hermione by at least a factor of three. His slightly beady eyes rolled wildly, his face a mixture of outrage and fear - but much more of the latter.

As Hermione had tested, with the help of a few Engorgement and Shrinking Charms, a Sticking Charm retained its enchantment even under shifts in size, and thus his entire palms were still affixed quite firmly to the stone floor, rather than tiny rat-paw-sized patches of them. His shoes were not - Hermione supposed because whatever kept his clothing suspended in the transformation didn't apply to the accommodation of the Sticking Charm, so the charms on his feet had dissipated being otherwise separated from the floor - or perhaps were simply holding his shoes on? And though the centers of the charms on his hands had shifted, each area had to continue to overlap the original area defined by the spell, so his hands were now touching, thumb-to-thumb. Unable to support himself in that position, he'd toppled forward, his legs splaying out, elbows bent awkwardly to avoid putting uncomfortable pressure on his wrists. He looked up at Hermione in a panic, eyes wild.

"No, no, no...you have it all wrong! I'm a marked man, I'm hunted, I _had_ to hide...but I didn't kill the Healer, I didn't!" Hermione wasn't inclined to simply take his word for it, but he _did_ seem truly terrified.

"You were _there_...the staff checked, and no one else could've done it," she pointed out, reaching into her bag with one hand while the other kept her wand on him. The man shook his head frantically.

"The _staff_ checked...was Snape one of them?" Hermione frowned, and the man's expression became desperately triumphant. "He's always been one for lying and sneaking and secrets...I saw him kill Pomfrey with my own eyes...I only just managed to open that cage and escape before he set up that subterfuge with the salamander blood and the quills, protected by a Bubble-Head Charm the whole time! When the other staff investigated, he must've interfered...subtly, carefully...and covered his tracks!"

While Hermione tried to wrap her head around this accusation, another part of her automatically continued the plan, since either way, there was no good reason not to. She did not direct her wand away from her prisoner, but instead brought her other hand around in front of it just long enough for her _Finite_ to catch the tiny object she held, which - no longer under the influence of seven stacked Shrinking Charms - agreeably ballooned outward until it was the normal-sized magical camera she'd borrowed from Penelope Clearwater. As much as she would have liked to quip 'Watch the birdie…' or something, surprise was paramount in the Plan as she didn't want him to have any chance to transform back into a rat at this point. So while the man was still trying to grasp what he was seeing, she centered him in the viewfinder and poked the shutter button with the tip of her wand. He blinked and sputtered from the large flash, looking even more desperate if anything. Hermione set down the camera carefully, keeping her eyes and wand on him.

"What motive could Professor Snape possibly have for killing Madam Pomfrey?" Hermione asked, though there was not as much skepticism in her voice as there might have been. She now rather regretted not having had Harry explain precisely what he believed about the Potions Professor. Before the man could respond, a loud pounding began on the door, and muffled voices. Hermione simply sighed, while her prisoner startled violently, wincing at the pain this produced in his hands.

"Oh, Merlin, who's that?!" he cried. Hermione shook her head.

"That is the sound of someone who - presumably because they are Gryffindors, or possibly because they are boys - upon hearing a Reminder Charm on a quill tell them there is an emergency and to find whoever of Professors McGonagall, Flitwick, Quirrell or Dumbledore is nearest and bring them here as fast as they can, rather than doing _that_ , have instead elected to shout and also pound pointlessly on the door that I prudently took the precaution of sealing. Though the latter was mostly for _you_ ," she added dryly. "Professor Snape?" she prompted, after a moment. The man blinked.

"He's a secret Death Eater, has been for years! Pomfrey must have suspected something about me after all those tests she did, and he somehow learned of it first - I'm marked, I tell you, I was in the Order of the Phoenix, fought against the Dark Lord...Snape came to do unspeakable things to me, but first he had to eliminate the witness…" Hermione stared. That was ridiculous, Professor Snape was...well, a _Professor_. Teachers didn't go around being evil and murdering people, they just _didn't_. And if you _were_ secretly evil, why on Earth would you go around deliberately trying to _look_ evil? Professor Snape, like anyone, probably had various problems, but being stupid didn't _appear_ to be one of them. And yet, Harry had learned _something_ … Hermione glanced at the door, but by now the pounding had stopped. Looking back, she found the man had also noticed, and his panic had increased.

"Do you have any evidence of that, other than your claim that he killed Madam Pomfrey? And if you knew he was evil, why didn't you just tell Dumbledore earlier? You've been living with the Weaselys - _as a rat_ \- for years!"

"I... _didn't_ have evidence! If I'd accused him, Snape would've wiggled out of it somehow, and then some odorless, tasteless potion would've found its way into my soup, and I'd have tragically choked to death or something!"

"So just tell Professor Dumbledore what you told me, surely-"

"Snape's muddied the waters, I told you! Unless...you could let me go, let me be a rat again, use your Charm, and I'm _sure_ I can find Snape's trail. But even with him in Azkaban, the Dark Lord still has other secret supporters, I'd never be safe...just don't tell anyone, let me live as a rat, please, I'm fine with it, I'm a _good_ rat…" Hermione's confidence was wavering, but her sense of propriety just couldn't let this last one go.

"Look, you can't just carry on sleeping in children's beds as a rat, it's just...you just _can't,_ okay?" She shuddered. "And besides, I, ah, don't actually think the Supersensory Charm will work that way...that was a sort of trap. Just wait, the Headmaster is a really amazing wizard, I'm _sure_ he can think of a way to keep you safe…" The man, who'd been staring at her throughout, began to thrash, his face twisted in frustration and terror, eyes rolling wildly, wincing each time he strained to free his hands - one of which, Hermione noted, was missing a finger. Suddenly he slumped into a sort of dejected squat, his chin falling to his chest. "I'm really sorry," Hermione said, feeling a lot less good about the whole thing than she'd expected to, "I can't release you, but if you're telling the truth, everything will work out...somehow…"

_Could_ Snape have actually done it? Hermione still didn't know what spells the staff had used to investigate, maybe they _could_ be fooled, particularly if you knew in advance what spells were likely to be tried, and were actually present there to make certain. But could he have done it right under the Headmaster's nose? Then again, while Professor Dumbledore - at minimum - had been sharp enough to suspect foul play, _he_ hadn't managed to find Scabbers _or_ Professor Snape, so maybe he _wasn't_ infallible. And that bit about muddying the waters wasn't hard to imagine, given how easily her future self had done it to _her_. But something else had occurred to her.

"If you were just running for your life, why did you steal Lavender's wand? And, more importantly, why run back to Ron's room, if you say Professor Snape _knew_ who you were, wouldn't he just-" Hermione's question was interrupted by a terrible cry of mingled exertion and pain as the man lunged upwards from his squat with desperate strength. His scream mixed with a nightmarishly _wet_ sound as all the skin from both of his palms tore free, gory handprints left behind on the stone. He staggered back a step, off balance from the sudden lack of resistance, his face contorted in pain.

Hermione had tried to think of ways the Plan could go wrong at each stage. She'd moved all the furniture away from the center of the room (and put some of it to other use, besides) so he couldn't reach anything with his feet, or with a free hand in the event she'd only been able to get one stuck before he transformed. But _this_ hadn't occurred to her at all, and even though she still had contingencies that might help, she simply wasn't emotionally prepared for the sight of a man mutilating himself to get free of spells _she'd_ cast. And she wasn't even sure he was _guilty_ anymore, he might just be so terrified he'd lost his reason. She froze in indecision.

One of his bloody hands reached into his tattered robes and pulled out Lavender's wand, face twisting as he tightened his flayed hand around it, pointed it at her. A part of her noted that this _still_ didn't prove anything, but the rest of her decided it still _looked pretty bad_ , and her hesitation broke.

" _Expelliarmus_!" she cried, giving her wand the appropriate diagonal flick. But the man slashed his wand downward, causing a bright flash as her spell was parried. He aimed his wand back at her, but Hermione had planned this sequence in advance and was already dropping onto her stomach, her own wand extended. His wordless spell finished first, but sailed over her and struck the wall behind. But he was still fast and experienced, and was able to sweep his wand down in another parry as Hermione shouted, " _Illubrico_!"

However, the strategy she'd worked out had called for her to - just in case he already had a Shield up - aim this spell at the _floor_ , and since the Lubricating Charm did not form a visible projectile, he was unable to adjust his parry to block the spell's unexpected trajectory. The stone became nearly frictionless, and the man's feet shot out from under him, dropping him heavily onto his back.

At this point, Hermione hesitated - she was encouraged that her spell combination was actually _working_ , but the next part called for her to manually trigger a fail-safe that ought to disable him. Except during her planning, she'd presumed that if things reached this point she would be in a life-or-death struggle and basically _anything_ would be justified - including the fail-safe, which might cause serious injury or even death - whereas now she was uncertain enough to question that. But her instincts said she had no choice - and as long as he wasn't killed outright, if he _was_ innocent, Madam Wainscott and the Professors ought to be able to set everything right.

But the brief hesitation to weigh the moral considerations had been costly, and even as she began to point her wand upward, her opponent had recovered from his fall and launched his own spell. Hermione tried to dodge, but she was too slow, and before she even got two syllables out, her wand was sailing out of her hand to clatter into a corner of the room. _I should've thought of that, tied a safety strap to it or something, but I was expecting Curses, not a_ Disarming _Charm, maybe he really_ isn't _a horrible murderer after-_

" _Crucio!_ " snarled the man, struggling to his feet. Blood spattered the stone beneath him, scattered drips from his free hand mixing with staccato spurts between the fingers of the other, squeezed out by the pressure of his grip on the wand.

Thought vanished as Hermione's world became pain. It was like her blood was on fire, or like her blood had been Transfigured to hydrofluoric acid, or something even _more_ gruesome, except she couldn't really _form_ these concepts, only feel them - there was no _room_ for anything but the searing, hateful agony. And then it was suddenly gone, leaving her twitching and panting on the stone floor - blood no longer burning, but muscles still aching from their involuntary contractions, her cheeks wet with tears, one of her fingernails chipped from clawing at the hard surface beneath her.

"Tell me what you know about me _,_ what you've _told!_ " screeched the man. "Tell me, so I can _fix_ it…" Murderer or not, he was clearly unhinged at this point, and Hermione was terrified - she was pretty sure she'd do _anything_ not to feel that pain again. But she still only answered the second part of his mad demands.

"Y-you...were _there_...only w-what I...told Ron and Harry," she stammered out, between gasping sobs.

" _Who else?!_ _You_ didn't plan this trap yourself, _who is helping you?!_ "

Hermione's mind cast about frantically for what he might _want_ to hear. She wondered if he'd believe her if she told the whole truth...maybe that'd be enough time for a Professor to actually get here, since it seemed like the man's own heart-pounding fear - and maybe the pain in his hands - was interfering with what was supposed to have been her second fail-safe. And the Cruciatus Curse hadn't triggered the first...maybe that was why it could eventually drive a victim insane, you never lost consciousness from its effects, no matter how much you might _want_ to? He raised the wand again, and Hermione's train of thought vanished as she immediately began to speak as fast as she could form the words, her brain barely connected to her mouth.

"No one, _honestly_ , I tried to talk to Dumbledore but I couldn't get into his office or he was out and I asked the Defence Professor for advice but it was all hypothetical and they all think I've been hexed so I needed real proof which is why I borrowed the camera, but the trap I just _thought_ about and I've always been quite good at thinking, but now I'm rather suspecting I'm not smart at _all_ and maybe I _should_ have been in Gryffindor, because I can't _imagine_ how I expected for a _second_ any of this would-"

" _Dissocio,_ " he interrupted, swishing Lavender's wand downward into a alternating flick at the end. Hermione gasped - recognizing a Disassembly Spell, and suddenly horrified at the thought of what it might do to a human body - but the spell was not aimed at her. Instead the camera turned into an exploded diagram of itself, all its individual parts separating and hanging in the air for a moment, then dropping gently to the floor. " _Accio_ proof," he continued, waving the wand vaguely at the scattering of camera parts, and the film agreeably soared towards his free hand, but he recognized the problem with this and an additional flick sent the roll to the floor in front of him before it could contact his bloody, fleshless palm. Another flick and the mottled appearance of the exposed film changed to a uniform brown-black. A final swirling motion sent the film and all the camera parts back together, each fitting neatly into its proper place.

While the man was carefully destroying her evidence, Hermione shakily stood up. Her wand was several yards away, and the only other ways of deliberately triggering her fail-safe she could think of seemed both unwise and unreliable. Though if it appeared he was about to use the Cruciatus on her again, she thought she might just go ahead and try one anyway. In the interim, she tried edging towards her wand as subtly as she could. She'd only made it about halfway when his attention turned back to her, whereupon she froze and tried to give the impression she was terrified into abject submission - a feat which did not require much acting ability, under the circumstances.

" _Accio_ wand," he said, aiming his own wand to the side, but keeping his eyes on her. Hermione's wand obediently leaped into the air and landed neatly in his free hand. He grunted at the pain this caused, but maintained his grip on it. "Trying to be clever? With _me_? I can _always_ see what people want to hide..." The little man gave a hollow laugh, and Hermione couldn't keep disappointment from touching her features. He tucked Lavender's wand into his robes, and switched Hermione's to his right hand.

"What...what are you going to do now?" she asked, her curiosity only barely edging out her fear at hearing the answer.

"No time to stage a convincing death scene for you, it'll have to be a Memory Charm," he mused.

"So you _did_ do it. But...if you can do Memory Charms, why did you kill Madam Pomfrey in the first place?" Hermione asked, aghast.

"I'm not very good at them," he said, with a shrug and an elaborate yawn. Hermione's heart briefly swelled with hope, but even if the Liquid Sheep she'd dosed the biscuits with was finally starting to kick in, it was taking forever...the dose must've been diluted within his greater body mass. But if he kept talking long enough… "I don't know enough Potions to pass off that kind of mental damage as an accident. But with that convenient Hex as an excuse, I can probably get you shipped off to St. Mungo's permanently, convinced of something ridiculous - say, that Grindelwald had escaped and had for some reason transfigured himself into a desk somewhere in Hogwarts…later, when I've had enough time to work something out and suspicion to die down, I can arrange a tragic accident for you too. " He raised her wand.

"Wait!" interrupted Hermione, desperately. "If you're going to Obliviate me anyway, can you explain why you were _really_ hiding as a rat first?"

"What would the point in that be?"

"I'm a _Ravenclaw_. If I have a choice between not-knowing and knowing...even temporarily...I'll choose knowing." For a moment, it looked as if he actually empathized with her, but the rat-faced man shook his head.

"I recognize stalling when I see it, and reinforcements could arrive any minute."

Hermione dove to one side as he opened his mouth again. She didn't have much hope of actually dodging the spell he was about to cast, so she also flung her arms backwards, piking forward, _trying_ to hit the stone floor headfirst as hard as she could manage and if she was very lucky, triggering the other fail-safe before-

" _Petrificus Totalus!_ " The spell might have helped her, preventing an instinctive flinch, except that it also forced her rail-straight, so the impact was distributed more evenly across her entire body instead of just her forehead as she'd intended. It still hurt when her nose hit the floor, but not as much as the realization that she hadn't planned carefully enough, she hadn't read enough...she was going to be Obliviated _again_ , probably be committed, and then - at some point - die.

It wasn't supposed to have been like this. Probably all kinds of people thought something like that in their final moments of clarity before some ignominious end, but Hermione suspected she was unique in actually having fairly strong _evidence_ on which to base that assertion. If this was how Time really worked, this disproportionate ruination of everything, she didn't think much of how the Universe was arranged. It was petty and nonsensical and frankly, someone ought to put Time in its place.

She really hoped someone would, even if it obviously wasn't going to be her.

" _Obliviate_."

There was a terrible wrenching disorientation.


	21. Interlude - Tempus Torqueri (Part 1/2)

The young woman strode purposefully towards the medium-sized building, weaving through the moderate Paddington pedestrian traffic. She was wearing an outfit that was coordinated enough not to excite notice from muggles, but with enough concessions to magical style that it wouldn't be off-putting - at worst a little drab - to people with whom she met. Her hair's normal resistance to order was opposed only by being tied back into a ponytail with a saffron scarf, and she was sensibly - given the amount of walking she'd been doing - wearing trainers.

She took the stairs to the third floor - in a concession to maintaining reasonable fitness, the young woman never took a lift for less than four flights - and quickly found the correct door. She followed policy and checked her wand (in a Disillusioned waist holster), checked her PASS (active, two layers), took a moment to draw herself up in an official bearing, and knocked three times, firmly. A woman of middling years wearing a dark orange housedress answered the door.

"Mrs. Conphelia Alderdosh?" she asked. The older woman nodded. "My name is Hermione Granger, I'm here from the Ministry on a DRCMC check, may I come in?" She said it in a matter-of-fact way, pointedly not looking around or speaking in conspiratorial tones. There weren't any witnesses in the hallway, but while a hypothetical muggle who'd overheard might have thought the Ministry reference oddly non-specific, they'd be unlikely to think it suspicious.

"Oh, about Philbert? By all means, come in, come in," Mrs. Alderdosh chirped, retreating back into the flat. "Can I get you anything, tea?" she asked, after Hermione had stepped inside, closing the door behind her.

"No, thank you," Hermione said, politely, "I shouldn't need to stay long."

"Frizzy-haired rat's nest!" said an improbably large ferret, considerably less politely. It wasn't actually a ferret, of course, but a Jarvey - a magical cousin with an impressive ability to speak, and the unfortunate restriction of only doing so to deliver a steady stream of insults. "Bossy!" The speech and generally _well-aimed_ quality of the insults ought to have implied _some_ degree of sapience, but the relentlessness of the abuse had discouraged optimistic investigation on that topic, and Jarveys remained firmly classified as Beasts.

Hermione observed the condition of the flat, the creature itself, and its owner, and removed the short quill from the clipboard she held. On the form secured to the clipboard, she dutifully checked four boxes next to "3f, 24 Praed Street, Paddington/Mrs. Conphelia Alderdosh/Jarvey x 1/Philbert", and under the columns "Creature Present", "Conditions Satisfactory", "Health Satisfactory (Creature)", and "Health Satisfactory (Owner)", respectively.

"Any plans to sell or give Philbert to anyone in the near future?" she asked.

"Testy! Nosey!" cried the Jarvey. _Perhaps to the ward at St. Mungo's for Excessive Masochism?_ Hermione thought in a silent amendment to her question.

"Oh, no, I couldn't bear to part with him - he's all that I have for company since my dear Flurvis passed on," the woman said, smiling sadly.

"Senile! Shut-in! Cow-faced prune!" added Philbert, unhelpfully. Hermione checked off one last box, and nodded.

"Thank you Mrs. Alderdosh, that's all I needed. I can let myself out." The other witch's smile was touched with disappointment.

"Oh, are you _sure_ you don't want to stay?" Hermione felt a bit bad for the woman, who clearly would have enjoyed some polite company, but not bad enough to want to remain a minute longer than she had to. And she _was_ on a schedule. Not that anyone but her would really care if she were less efficient.

"Sorry, I still have quite a few visits left today," she said, tapping her clipboard. "Thank you for your time, and have a nice day." She quickly left the flat, but couldn't close the door fast enough to avoid hearing a final salvo from Philbert.

"Heartless Ministry drone!" Hermione winced.

She wondered if anyone had tried Cheering Charms, or maybe a Confundus...obviously a Silencing Charm would've worked - but then, presumably the sort of person who opted to keep a Jarvey as a pet would prefer them just as they were. But this thought was less serious problem-solving and more to distract herself from how close to home that last jibe had hit.

As she went back to the stairs to go up two more flights to her next check-in, she wondered - as she often did these days - if she was doing the right thing. After she'd finished her N.E.W.T.s, joining the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures had seemed like a good way for her to do some immediately _constructive_ things for magical Britain. She could leverage her personal experience with Elves, at the very least get the current welfare laws enforced more often, ideally push to get them expanded. Then Centaurs, Goblins, maybe even Giants! The idea of a world where all intelligent creatures were treated equally, given the same access to education and wands...it appealed directly to her idealism, and while Voldemort's final defeat - and his association with _in_ equality - was fresh in the public's minds was the perfect time to do it.

Somehow things hadn't worked out quite as she'd imagined. Sure, she was helping with Elvish welfare in her own small way - she'd been responsible for nearly a hundred citations in her first six months alone - but it seemed that sweeping her exams and helping defeat Dark Lords didn't excuse her from Ministry policy, which for the DRCMC meant two training years no matter _how_ smart or semi-famous you were. Endless check-ins with registered owners of Magical Creatures, making sure the things hadn't died, escaped, been sold, gotten loose and eaten their owners, etc. Occasionally there were warnings, or citations, almost never any excitement - if there's any _active_ suspicion of problems or criminal activity, they don't send a trainee.

Hermione rechecked the next address on her clipboard, paused at the door, then checked wand, PASS, and posture. Policy. She sighed, and knocked.

 _Coeur-arbre_ , she thought as she glanced down at her clipboard, _that's interesting at least_. It was a rare magical tree - limited sentience with no mobility beyond willingly shedding its leaves, but still barely enough to require check-ins. Beyond decoration, the only recorded use was the leaves, a Class E Tradable, that could be used as an ingredient in a few minor potions. Not love potions per se, despite the name, more like "nostalgia"...rekindling friendship, bringing back fond memories, that sort of thing.

Because she was still looking at the clipboard when the man opened the door, she missed his rapid series of expressions, from a look of irritation, to surprise and alarm, then determination. All she saw was the determination, and she hadn't even registered the import of the wand in his hand when he immediately hit her with a powerful curse and she flew backwards, her body and head slamming evenly into the opposite wall.

The curse - whatever it was - had shattered the outer layer of her PASS, but left the inner intact - the combined efforts of that layer and the Impact Absorbing Charm she prudently cast on herself whenever she was going near muggle traffic had likely saved her from a nasty concussion, or worse.

The man, a dark-haired fellow with a thin scar under his left eye, was wearing the sort of mismatched but highly functional robes and gear favored equally by Cursebreakers, Security Witches, and criminals. His wand was short, dark and gnarled. In the flat behind him...well, Hermione was a little dazed and still wasn't sure _what_ she was seeing, but it was obviously highly magical and made her eyes as wide as saucers. Despite her slight dizziness and not having been in serious magical combat for almost three years now, she was grimly pleased to note that the clipboard had been dropped and her wand was already in her hand, poised equally to reinforce her PASS, stun, or deflect as necessary. Her attacker swore, and rather than following up with another assault, instead he slammed the door.

Hermione immediately restored the outer layer of her Persistent Accommodating Shield Spell, then added a third and fourth layer for good measure. Stacking multiple layers like this was a lot more difficult than it sounded, but then, she _had_ invented the spell. The tiny, invisible hole in each layer - which allowed the spell to protect in all directions yet still permit outgoing magic - rotated around her in carefully mismatched orbits, and would only ever snap into mutual alignment for the split second it took one of her own spells to pass through them. Only once that was done did she hesitate. DRCMC policy when encountering a suspected criminal was to withdraw safely, Apparate to the DMLE emergency reception area, brief whoever was on duty and let the Aurors handle it. But her brief glimpse of the completely unfamiliar magic behind the door suggested a powerful ritual of some sort was going on in there, and given the man's immediate resort to violence, it probably wasn't a spell to summon kittens. There might not be any _time_ to spare.

 _Also_ , she told herself, _I am_ _ **not**_ _a Ministry drone, no matter what Malfoy's spirit animal might say...I am a_ _ **Gryffindor**_ _._

Hermione flicked her wand to open the door, and when - unsurprisingly - it did not open, she flicked it again in a wordless Unlocking Charm. When it _still_ didn't open, she dismissed it entirely from consideration, took a step to the side, then hit the _wall_ with a Silencing Charm and a Bombardment Curse in quick succession. She buried her mouth into the crook of her free arm to avoid choking on the sudden dust from the eerily soundless burst of frame wood and plaster that left a now person-sized opening into the flat. Another twist of her wand and the dust fell to the floor en masse like iron filings pulled to a magnet, allowing her a clear view.

The man, against a wall and half-prone from the blast, had nevertheless maintained concentration on his immediate task, which apparently had been enchanting a scrap of paper. It flew out the open window behind him, trailing smoke like a jet fighter's exhaust, and with similar speed. Seeing Hermione through the hole, he swore again and his features tightened. Unwilling to launch a stunner anywhere near the active field of an unknown ritual, Hermione ducked under the plane of eldritch light and physically lunged forward instead, but she was too late - her hand passed through the space where he'd been a moment earlier.

Hermione did not swear out loud, though she did allow herself to _think_ a few extremely nasty phrases.

She didn't waste much time on self-recrimination, however, and immediately took stock of the situation. The flat was dominated by the Coeur-arbre, growing out of a large flat plot of dirt somehow - presumably magically - set into the floor. Every one of its rather pretty pinkish-silver leaves was strewn about the floor, leaving the tree looking thin and bare. Beyond that, a spinning contraption of some kind had been driven into the trunk of the tree. A luminous rosy silver fluid was dripping from it, as if it were a tap for maple syrup, but the intensely magical substance was twisting in skeins through the air of the room about five feet above the floor. It aligned in patterns above complex Arithmantic diagrams which had been laid out on the floor in chalk, and which Hermione had - miraculously, in her current judgement - not disturbed when she'd rushed forward to try to force a Side-Along with the man.

 _A Finite probably isn't going to cut it here,_ Hermione thought, swallowing against a suddenly dry throat.

The patterns in the air were shifting with increasing speed. Hermione edged back out from under the the active magic, then turned carefully away. She pointed her wand to a clear space near the hole in the wall, concentrating firmly on Dearest Ronald, but _thinking_ about the message she wanted to send to the DMLE, which was roughly as follows: _Go to the duty officer in DMLE emergency reception, and tell them DRCMC trainee Hermione Granger reports that there is an unknown ritual in progress in 5c, 24 Praed Street, Paddington. One male suspect - dark hair, scar under left eye, wand, uh, seven inches, gnarled, ash I think - assaulted me and Disapparated. Ritual appears to be self-sustaining, may be unstable, I will begin efforts to analyse and contain it, but you might want to call in an Herbology specialist and maybe an Unspeakable, as it involves previously unreported properties of a Coeur-arbre._

"Expecto Patronum!" she cried, with the appropriate brandish. The shining otter that burst from her wand did a tight lap in the air around her head - the brief look of reproach it seemed to give her might have been due to the length of her message, but was probably just her imagination - then streaked off. That much handled, Hermione quickly (and belatedly) added a Muggle-repelling Charm to the area around the hole in the wall, then addressed all her attention to the animated skeins of what she'd decided for the moment to call "Coeur-arbre syrup". Carefully moving around the active area, she stepped close to the edge of the Arithmantic diagrams on the floor. From what she could gather at a glance, they were doing very little active functional transformation, and instead seemed to be simply focusing and concentrating the syrup itself, along with whatever properties it held. _Presumably_ with the intent of leveraging those properties to some purpose, but you never could tell with people who were crazy enough to do unsupervised magical research.

Hermione inscribed a quick Arithmantic series of diagnostic formulae in the air - glowing symbols trailing from her wand's tip - as close as she could to one of the skeins at the edge of the field. Almost immediately her formulae flared into painful brilliance, then exploded into motes. Hermione tensed...one of the Fundamental Magics...at _least_ one. Her wand darted into action again as she swiftly traced out more symbols, starting a much more involved set of formulae. Hopefully, _these_ would hold and she could get at least enough of a handle on what was happening here to safely-

Her hopes and inscribing both were interrupted, as someone came sprinting into the flat through the hole in the wall, skidded out-of-control on the dust-covered floor, and slammed bodily into her. Hermione fairly _shrieked_ in shock and spun around with the hit, allowing her a view of a young woman her own age. The woman's echoing shriek, and the expression of dismay that was straining her own features made it difficult to be certain, but, considering the line on Hermione's clipboard for this flat had listed the tree's owner as "Ms. T. Davis", she could see a certain resemblance to her former classmate.

" _What are you_ -" the woman began to shout, but her eyes widened even further - to the point where they threatened to eclipse her forehead - and she reached out towards Hermione, who felt herself tipping off-balance from the spin. The woman's fingers closed around Hermione's arm at the same time Hermione's head intersected the skein she'd been trying to analyze, the lambent syrup cutting through four layers of PASS like they hadn't been cast at all - or more precisely, like they hadn't been cast _yet_.

Hermione _felt_ it happen, and she wanted to be exasperated, but somehow as all light and thought vanished, all she felt was contentment, familiarity, _wonder_.

o-o-o

She looked around, in considerable confusion. The flat was gone, the Coeur-arbre, the ritual, Tracey (if that had actually been her)...instead, she was in a bookshop. Which was still somehow comforting, despite its current inexplicability. Hermione recognized it almost immediately as Flourish and Blotts in Diagon Alley, which at least answered - partially, anyway - one of the dozen or so questions now fighting for attention in her mind.

The shop bustled with its usual activity, with witches and wizards of all ages criss-crossing the shop and politely elbowing each other for room. It thus did not take long at all for Hermione's confusion to shift gears when one of the aforementioned joints - belonging to a passing witch - sailed through her body with no resistance, or indeed reaction on the part of its owner.

"Er…" said Hermione. Her first thought was that the Coeur-arbre syrup had acted like a Pensieve, but she'd finally had the chance to use one during her DRCMC training (for "first-hand" exposure to otherwise excessively rare or dangerous creatures), and while her current surroundings did have a very slight hazy cast to them, it seemed like a subjectively different _sort_ of hazy cast. She then examined this thought, did not think highly of it, and wondered if she might be suffering some sort of after-effects. But only idly...it didn't seem important, somehow.

Her attention was drawn to a small commotion - a pair of wizards were leaning over to observe something hidden from her view behind a small stand of copies of perennial-bestseller, _Hogwarts, a History_. She walked around the stand to see better, and suddenly felt like she'd been punched in the stomach. There, sprawled on the floor, was a young girl in muggle attire, a mass of brown bushy hair framing her face. On one side of her was a bag from Flourish and Blotts, filled with the official class books the girl had responsibly purchased before beginning her personal browsing. On the other side, beneath her fingertips, was a crisp new copy of _Hogwarts, a History_.

The girl's face was pale, her eyes closed, and the wizards were arguing about whether to try another spell since _Rennervate_ hadn't worked, or just have one of them set straight off for St. Mungo's to fetch a Mediwitch, and if so, which of them would go and which would stay.

Hermione realized several things in quick succession. The girl was _herself_ , on her first trip to Diagon Alley. This was not a memory, Pensieve or otherwise, because she certainly hadn't fainted in the bookstore. The unknown ritual with the Coeur-arbre had presented as involving at _least_ one Fundamental Magic, one of which, of course, was Time. And finally - and most alarmingly - as she watched her younger self grow paler, she herself felt increasingly invigorated, her thoughts more clear.

"A _Horcrux_?" she whispered, horror racing with bafflement and edging into a slight lead. Her dismay easily tripled as one of the wizards looked up, then back and forth in her general direction, as if he'd _heard_ her, but wasn't able to see her. Yet.

Immediately, she stepped forward and kicked her own hand away from the book.

Or at least that was her intention, if perhaps an ill-considered one given her current intangibility. As it happened, her hand _did_ move away from the book, but it was entirely due to the full-body startle she gave when she abruptly found herself _inhabiting_ her younger self's body, staring up at two suddenly-relieved-looking wizards.

"See, it must've just taken a moment to kick in," said the shorter wizard.

"Are you quite all right, young lady?" asked the other. "Do you need help to St. Mungo's, or perhaps finding your guardian?" Now incarnated, she could somehow _feel_ her younger self's mind beneath her own, as if it were an egg on a table and she was pressing her hand on it with steadily increasing force. With all her willpower, she rejected this sensation, "pulled" her hand away. And it seemed to work, her younger mind felt less endangered. But at the same time, she now felt a "hollow place" at the top of her own mind, very slowly pulsing, pushing out cracks. It was a deeply disquieting sensation, but she could obviously cope with it in the short term if the alternative was somehow draining her own life force away.

That handled for the moment, she regarded the book on the floor warily, as if it were a live, poisonous snake. But there was no point in getting rid of it...if it _was_ somehow a horcrux akin to Riddle's diary - or something close to it, since she certainly hadn't killed anyone to create it (unless she'd killed herself?) - it wouldn't matter, she was already linked to it. And it seemed to be working _much_ faster, perhaps because it was her _own_ spirit trying to (or trying not to, rather) steal her _own_ life force. But there appeared to be a degenerative factor in her refusal...possibly if she just waited it out, the link would fade and break.

"Miss? Miss?" One of the wizard's repeated calls finally penetrated, and Hermione realized she needed to begin acting _immediately_ to limit any changes to History. If she - or a part of her soul - _had_ been flung back through Time by whatever had happened, the normal "protections" of a Time-Turner might not apply. She hastily picked up her (soon-to-be) copy of _Hogwarts, a History_ and her bag of other books and stood up, past the gentle pressure of the wizards' hands as they urged caution.

"I'm all right now, really. Just a medical condition, ah, Transient Ischemic Fluctuations, happens to a lot of muggle-borns…" she said, hoping neither of the wizards themselves were muggle-borns. They still looked concerned, but a little less so - jargon could be comforting, putting something in a nicely defined box that said that _someone_ understood it, even if that someone wasn't you.

"You still really ought to get that checked at St. Mungo's," urged the taller wizard, "They can deal with most muggle diseases pretty easily, you know."

"Oh yes," said Hermione, "my parents have a pamphlet, they're taking me there straight away after we finish shopping, I'm just browsing while they get everything else. They'll probably be back here in no more than two hours or so, if you want to wait?" This was a gamble, but she hoped the assurance combined with the _inconvenience_ of minding her for up to two hours would dissuade the would-be Samaritan wizards.

"Ah, well, that's probably all right then," said the shorter wizard. "We ought to be going anyway. But you might want to use one of the chairs in the Reading Corner," he suggested, pointing towards a nook off to the side of the clerks' registers, "just in case you fall down again?" Hermione nodded encouragingly.

"Thank you, that's an excellent idea...I just need to buy this first. Thank you _so much_ , you've both been very kind." The taller wizard still looked uncertain, but allowed his companion to pull him away as Hermione headed towards a register queue.

She bought the book, and quickly performed her traditional ritual of inscribing her name - though she suspected whatever strange magic was at work had marked the book far more securely as _hers_ than anything she could have done deliberately. Bringing her first trip to Flourish and Blotts to mind, she recalled finding _Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century_ next, so she put _Hogwarts, a History_ into her bag of purchases and hurriedly found the proper shelf. She put one hand on a copy, then paused.

Her sense of her past self's mind suggested that even if it wasn't in control, it was _active_ somehow, at least a little, and Hermione feared that meant she'd _remember_ some of this...certainly enough that she'd ask questions about it that she'd definitely never asked.

Working with a light, instinctive touch, she experimentally ran mental fingers through her younger mind as if it was a book, and found she received impressions of what was on each "page". Encouraged, she continued, until she found a section that felt correct, right up at the "end". Hermione hesitated a moment, wary of relying on inexplicable abilities she didn't understand, but every moment that passed increased the risk to History. She closed her eyes and whispered.

"Sorry, but this is for our own good."

Hermione pulled sharply, _tearing_ , and she felt it as a searing burn across her own psyche. She felt herself slipping and deliberately turned it into a sort of fumbling mental acrobatics, "flinging" her younger self's mind "upward" while she dropped "beneath". Throughout the maneuver, she was relieved - sort of - to note that the hollow place stayed firmly affixed to her own mind.

Hermione couldn't have explained _how_ she'd done it, but it had worked. Her younger self, now in control again, shook her head slightly, then withdrew the copy of _Great Wizarding Events_ and began scanning the table of contents, not acting as if she'd experienced anything bizarre and inexplicable. And Hermione herself no longer seemed to have a body of her own, she was simply watching through her past self's eyes, hearing through her ears, and - somewhat less distinctly - feeling the other normal operations of her body, even while her _mind_ still reeled from the shocking pain of having attacked her own memories. Did that pain mean that this "now" _was_ still causally linked to her own, and the pain was a flavor of backlash? But she'd acted to _preserve_ her own episodic continuity...maybe it was just a sympathetic reaction, since they were somehow sharing the same brain...

By the time her parents and Professor McGonagall showed up to collect her and go buy her wand, her past self had purchased all the books she'd remembered purchasing this trip, and the adults had said the same things she remembered - or loosely, at any rate, her memory was not quite as good for speech as it was for written material, and it _had_ been nearly a decade. But if she'd had lungs, she would've sighed in relief. Whatever was going on with _her_ , History, at least, seemed to be safe.

At least, it did for the seven minutes it took to walk to Ollivanders.

o-o-o

Hermione watched, with increasing concern, the not just different, but downright _bizarre_ version of her first visit to Ollivanders. It was concerning, but not really _alarming_ , until the enigmatic wandmaker appeared to come to a decision.

"I have little doubt you will learn...everything in Time, Miss Granger. But it will not have been now, nor from me," he intoned. _Merlin, he's going to Obliviate you! Protego, dodge, do_ _ **something**_ _you little idiot!_ Hermione tried to reverse the maneuver she'd pulled before, to take control, but she could gain no purchase. A bright flash issued from the tip of Ollivander's wand, and Hermione felt a thousand-thousand delicate threads of magic _slice_ through her past self's mind, breaking connections, rending apart associations. Her past self didn't seem to feel it, but for her, it was as if she'd been dropped into an active lava flow, it was like being Crucio'd by Bellatrix all over again but with Greyback tearing her to pieces at the same time.

She screamed, soundlessly. Waves of agony and alarm washed imperceptibly over her younger self's mind, nestling into the cracks in the banal replacement memories Ollivander's spell was painstakingly constructing. Hermione did not lose consciousness exactly...consciousness was all she _was_. But under the unrelenting assault, her thoughts grew thick and dull and dark, and it was equal parts horror and mercy, for she lost the pain in a dense, slow fog of confusion.

o-o-o

By the time Hermione's mind regained coherence, weeks had apparently passed - she found herself lying in her bed at Hogwarts, staring up at the dark canopy over her bed. Something seemed a bit off about it, but her first priority was to take stock of both her own mind and her past self's. Thankfully, the younger mind, now sleeping, showed no sign of damage - as awful as it had been for Hermione, Ollivander had patched over his own work much more smoothly than the scar she had left from her own desperate efforts in Flourish and Blotts. Though there did seem to be strange ripples of her own experience woven distastefully through the former, like a few cat hairs sticking out of an otherwise delicious pudding. But even more relieving, there was no sign that the degeneration had affected her other self. It seemed, even in her insensate state, Hermione had retained her conviction not to draw upon her past self's life force.

Her own mind, however, was another matter. The cracks and gaps had spread throughout, and widened - and though she could sense them with the strange awareness she had in this state, through some self-referential flaw, she couldn't _interpret_ them the way she had with her past self's memories. She knew that important parts of her were going, and she had no idea which. It ought to have terrified her, but it felt more irritating than anything else, and _that_ frightened her a little bit.

With her younger self asleep, she did seem to have regained control of their shared body at the moment, and it occurred to her that if she couldn't fully rely on her own mind anymore, she ought to keep some kind of notes. Besides, note-taking always helped her think even under normal circumstances. If she gained control every time her younger self slept, and could keep the notes secure and hidden somehow - even from herself - maybe she could compile enough research to undo this whole mess, get back to her own time.

Accordingly, she slipped out of bed quietly, so as not to disturb her roommates - Lavender in particular was a light sleeper - but her trunk was not where she expected it to be, and she had to bite her tongue to keep from crying out when she stubbed a toe. But apparently the small sound had been too much.

"Be _quiet_ ," murmured an irritable voice, and Hermione winced as much for waking Lavender as for her smarting toe.

"Sorry Lav," she whispered, feeling around for the trunk's unfamiliar position. But her reassurance apparently had the opposite of the intended effect, as she heard the soft sound of the girl sitting up in bed.

" _What_ did ye call me?" came a whisper from the shadows. Hermione's heart juddered. Whatever parts of her mind might be missing, she was certain that Lavender did _not_ have a Scottish accent. She leaned forward and twitched the curtains slightly to let a bit more of the dim moonlight into the room, and was additionally disoriented by how high the view seemed to be, and furthermore of the wrong side of the castle. But that was nothing compared to seeing the completely unfamiliar face glaring at her from the adjacent bed. Hermione desperately tried to bring her thoughts up to speed.

"I...I meant sorry, I have to _use_ the lav," she whispered. "I just stubbed my toe."

"Bards will sing of your tragedy," the girl responded, scorn dripping from her own hissing whisper. "Next time, daen't apologize, just _be quiet_." With that, she flopped back down and pulled the blanket back up - also, somehow, scornfully.

Hermione, not wanting to risk further noise _or_ conversation at the moment, quickly moved to the bathroom. And stood frozen in utter shock, for from the complete lack of lions in the fixtures, it was obvious that it was not a _Gryffindor_ bathroom.

o-o-o

After some unknown period of quiet panic, Hermione tried to get a grip on herself. Step one was to orient herself. Looking at the fixtures closely, they were all eagles and ravens. So apparently, while she'd been "out", her past self had been _Sorted into Ravenclaw_. She had _seriously_ changed Time. Hermione became a little dizzy and a bit nauseated, and felt the need to spend a while sitting on the bathroom floor with her arms around her knees, rocking.

But even if it was hard to remember, in a not-quite-twelve-year-old body, feeling like this - in a bathroom, no less - and surrounded by paradox-laden _bird_ fixtures, she eventually reminded herself that _she_ was a Gryffindor, _she_ was a confident adult woman, and fugues did _not_ solve problems. So Hermione pulled herself together again, and came at it from a different direction. It had been weeks, at least, since Diagon Alley. Plenty of time for Butterfly Effects to become shocking and disorienting - instead, she withdrew into herself and reached for that strange sense of her younger self's mind again. She tried carefully paging through it, spending enough time to get as much detail as she could from each bit, noting each change from her recollections, compiling a new mental timeline. But she found it difficult to keep things straight, to stay focused.

Notes, right. She was going to keep notes.

Hermione judged it had been long enough that whoever the Scottish girl was - not Cho Chang, she'd have recognized her...who'd been in Ravenclaw her year? Mac-something... Anyway, that she was hopefully solidly asleep again. So she ventured back into the bedroom proper, and with achingly slow, silent movements, managed to extract her wand, a quill and some paper from one of her trunks, then make her way back to the bathroom. She sat carefully on the side of a toilet seat - stall door closed and latched - lit her wand dimly, and began to take notes, though they came out a bit more stream-of-consciousness than she'd have liked.

She filled a full page with everything she could remember about the Coeur-arbre, the Arithmantic diagrams, the man who'd attacked her and fled, and continued them on a second sheet. Hermione decided that, given the name, if anyone had better information than Hogwarts on Coeur-arbre, it would be Beauxbatons, though contacting them without making things worse could be problematic.

Next was compiling _changes_. Obviously there were the two wizards in Flourish and Blotts - she really should've gotten their names at the time, but there really wasn't much she could do there at this point. But the next thing was Ollivander's bizarre behaviour, and there wasn't enough _time_ for what happened in the bookstore to have spread changes that far. Tracey had grabbed her just before it happened, what if she'd been pulled in too, but to an _earlier_ time? But then she really ought to have noticed _more_ changes, as soon as she arrived. Hermione considered contacting Ollivander, since he clearly knew something, but that had the same difficulties as Beauxbatons, and plus, he'd essentially assaulted an eleven-year-old. For all she knew, he had been under an Imperius, or had been Polyjuiced at the time or something.

The bit with Tonks...her younger self must have arrived at King's Cross slightly earlier, so that was easy enough to explain. But what had possessed her to _actually_ make Pettigrew's fur yellow? Yes, she didn't _know_ what he was, but still...that hadn't even _occurred_ to her in her own version, even though she _had_ seen the spell. Ah...she'd thought it was Tonks, Ron had mentioned his brothers, which must have reminded her of Tonks' conversation about pranking and her own disapproval of the same. Such a little thing... There must've been some earlier changes, but she couldn't find any obvious ones. And then after that… Hermione paged further into her younger self's memories.

Madam Pomfrey was dead. _Madam Pomfrey_ was _dead_. Because she'd been forced to examine Pettigrew, because he'd bitten Goyle while being _yellow_.

Because of her.

She cried for a while, until it felt like she might be crying more for herself than for Poppy, then wiped away the tears harshly and continued her analysis. Was there any point in turning Pettigrew in? He'd probably go back to hiding, and so many parts of History depended on him being where he'd been, doing what he'd done. But he hadn't killed anyone this early before, and Riddle is _here_...how will he react to that? What if they found each other _early_?

Hermione tried to concentrate, but felt herself inching closer to drawing upon her younger self's energy, and flinched away. She considered the possibility that she might not be able to survive in this state much longer - at least not and retain any thoughts recognizable as _her_. I've traveled far further back through Time than I ever did third year, and yet I somehow don't have _enough_. Even Dearest Ronald would laugh.

She briefly considered just running to Dumbledore straightaway. There was nothing to be done about Poppy, but how much other death and horror could be avoided if Dumbledore knew _everything_ , and _now_ \- or at least as much as she could access, the way her mind was? But for all she knew, Poppy was only the first backlash from her changes, inadvertent or otherwise - changing Time was _dangerous_. Yes, by abusing her Time-Turner they'd saved Buckbeak, and Sirius...if only temporarily - but it was pure luck that they'd had sufficient room to avoid contradictions that time and dodge around paradox. Here, paradox was stacking up rather fiercely.

She'd compromise...record everything she remembered - it was only _right_ that it be preserved - and think of some way that the information be revealed if things were _already_ going further wrong than they had already, or than they had the first time? That way it ought to limit the repercussions-

Hermione frowned. The word she'd just written had vanished. She scribbled a little, tried again. Those marks vanished as well. She looked at the quill - it wasn't that the self-inking enchantment had run out, it was _making_ marks, they just weren't _staying_.

As she tested further, she watched in mute horror as the rest of her notes faded away, leaving the paper fresh and clean.

A _Vanishing Ink_ Quill? Why in Merlin's name had she bought a _joke_ Quill?!

She slumped wearily, one of the now-blank pages slipping from limp fingers into the toilet bowl below her, and she stared at it dully. Was this some kind of cosmic metaphor? Everything she'd done with her life was going to be wiped away and be flushed down the _loo_ for good measure?

Hermione went ahead and flushed the useless page, then returned to her bed, finding the Scottish girl sitting up again, glaring. She didn't have the mental capacity to deal with this. She ought to Memory Charm her, she knew the spell well enough, but her body's muscle memory for the proper gestures wouldn't be present, plus there were her...issues...she might foul it up, the girl would naturally raise an alarm...

"Sorry," she whispered, instead. "Please don't tell anyone?" The girl just stared, and stared, _just_ long enough for Hermione to actually recall the last thing she'd said to her, and cringe at the fact that in her inattention she'd done the opposite of what the Scottish girl had asked. The girl then only nodded curtly, her lips twisting, and lay down again. Hermione, feeling very much not herself, quietly put her things away, then got back into bed and waited for morning.

She wondered if it was a problem that in her current state - though she felt terribly weary - she didn't seem to have any capacity for sleep at all.

o-o-o

The next day was troubling, and the _least_ of it was the constant low-level _wrongness_ of her being a Ravenclaw. She was shocked to find herself visiting the Hogwarts Elves in the kitchens, treating them respectfully but not making a fuss - how had her younger self managed to come to terms with it, ethically? Hermione tried to recall what had gone through her own mind when she first discovered that Hogwarts kept house Elves, but the memory was disconcertingly fuzzy.

The conversation with the Weasley Twins at least cleared up most of the mystery of the quill and her notes, though something about it seemed not quite right, something important, but it was so _hard_ to think when her younger self was awake, she just couldn't put her finger on it. Maybe it was that she'd _kept_ the quill afterward?

She cringed at her brief misplaced sympathy about Scabbers' supposed death - or maybe it wasn't misplaced, since it was technically sympathy for _Ronald_ , but either way it felt odd. But the thing with Lavender in Charms seemed _highly_ suspicious. Pettigrew, in his Animagus form, clearly had some way of getting into and out of Gryffindor Tower - and perhaps the enchantments on the girl's dormitories only applied to male _humans_ , in which case he could've stolen Lavender's wand, so anything he did to cover up Poppy's murder wouldn't show up on a _Priori Incantato_ on her wand. That did leave open the question of what he _had_ done, though.

Defence class definitely raised some concern, as Quirrell was obviously distracted in a way that suggested he was thinking about the murder. Not that _him_ thinking about it was the _real_ problem, but it was a symptom, since presumably Riddle was thinking about it as well. She wondered how the Slytherins would react if they knew they were effectively making sport of _Voldemort_. Riddle himself probably wouldn't actually mind, since they were targeting Quirrell - about whom he presumably cared very little - and they were only reinforcing Quirrell's oh-so-Slytherin deception about being harmless and beneath suspicion. But the first-years would probably wet themselves, and this thought took a bit of the edge off her very real concern about Riddle gaining some advantage as a result of her changes.

Then there was Transfiguration. Hermione hadn't made quite so _comprehensive_ notes in her own first class, and while her first effort had reached the same endpoint, it hadn't been nearly as fast or dramatic. She had no idea that drilling down so far on contrast and conformation could have that kind of effect on speed, and felt a peculiar jealousy towards her younger self. Not that she seemed likely to have a particularly easy time of it, with all the obvious complications involved in the secrecy imposed by Professor McGonagall.

History of Magic was about as dull as she remembered it, though the house pairing was different, and there was - based on where she directed her gaze - her younger self's peculiar fixation on Slytherins. Yes, the Sorting wasn't exactly _fair_ , but experience showed it was essentially _accurate_. But seemingly having more sympathy for _them_ and less for the widely oppressed Elves gave Hermione some pause about the girl's moral judgement.

The conversation with Professor McGonagall was curious. For one, that it had never occurred to Hermione that the student in Minerva's class introduction might have tried to Transfigure _radioactive_ material. It wasn't that she'd discounted the theory because it would've been a terribly reckless thing to do - which was true - she simply hadn't thought of it. Instead, she'd just accepted the Professor's lesson that Transfiguration was dangerous and she needed to follow the rules at all times, and given it no further attention. And then there was the very _obvious_ realization - at least in retrospect - that Minerva must have had her own Time-Turner. Since Dumbledore had his own enigmatic responsibilities outside the school, he passed a significant amount of day-to-day responsibilities to her, and unlike him, she had Transfiguration to teach as well. It made her respect McGonagall even more, given all that had happened over the years, the difference a few extra hours of preparation might have made in so many situations, that she'd _resisted_ the temptation to fiddle with Time. Or maybe, like Hermione, her respect for rules - at least, sensible ones - was so strong that intervening simply hadn't occurred to her without someone else to urge her, as Dumbledore had for Hermione? But then why hadn't he ever prompted Minerva similarly? Or maybe he had, and things would have been _even worse_ otherwise…

o-o-o

She'd taken care to note how all Y.H.'s things were arranged this morning, so when the girl finally went to sleep, Hermione was able to navigate more confidently in the dark without disturbing anyone. Enough to gather clothes, wand, Self-Inking quill (a proper one this time), and paper. She decided to wait to change out of her nightgown until she was half a turn down the stairs, though. There was no sense in tempting fate with Morag again, who seemed to be holding a serious grudge about having her sleep disturbed, but thankfully she hadn't specifically mentioned it to her younger self.

Once she'd dressed, Hermione considered Disillusioning herself, but Disillusionment wasn't perfect, and if she was caught anyway, it would be much harder to explain having cast it as a first-year. Instead, she settled for charming her clothes to a uniform grey that fairly matched the castle's stone, then Silencing herself. She even, for a moment, considered trying to use a Summoning Charm to borrow the Marauder's Map, but even supposing there was an open path via which it could make its way to her, the risk that the Twins would see or hear it leave seemed too great. For all she knew, they were using it this very moment, roaming the castle after curfew.

That thought gave her pause. If they _were_ using it, they'd be alert for anyone moving around the corridors, and it was impossible to predict how they'd react to seeing her name. At least it'd be her name either way, and _that_ complication had been avoided - though the Twins seemed not terribly observant in that regard, or they'd have noticed Pettigrew or Riddle this year (presuming the latter showed up somehow superimposed with Quirrell, at any rate). But if they did, and decided to track her down, discovering her sneaking about Silenced, in charmed camouflage, like some sort of ninja witch, would be an awful tangle. Maybe she should've just left her nightgown on, allowing her to more easily claim sleepwalking, or something? In the end, she shrugged off these concerns. She was fairly certain that even in Y.H.'s body, she could subdue Filch and Mrs. Norris _or_ the Twins, and Memory Charm them as necessary - with no one else around, she'd have enough time to do it slowly and carefully. On the other hand, if she encountered _Snape_...well, she'd cross that bridge when she came to it, and in the meantime just avoid going near his office or the forbidden third floor corridor.

Fortunately enough, she encountered no difficulty getting out of Ravenclaw Tower and making her way to the Library, despite the unfamiliarity of the route - in contrast to the path from the Gryffindor common room to the Library, which she knew better than the house she'd grown up in. The Library wasn't even locked, which Hermione found surprising given Madam Pince's predilections. Maybe it simply didn't occur to her anyone would dare intrude off hours?

Despite the eerie gloom, Hermione took a moment just to revel in the comforting familiarity, running her fingers along the shelves. Two years at the DRCMC...she'd thrown herself into her work, but lost her sense of identity. _This_ was what was important...thousands of years of recorded knowledge, perfect and immutable. She could just climb onto one of the shelves and be content, secure. Madam Pince would never let anyone change _her_ history, scribbling out what was _meant_ to be written on her pages.

On her pages?

Hermione shook her head foggily and reminded herself what she was there for...researching what had started this whole mess, and making a hidden copy of what she knew about _her_ future, so...so...no matter what, it wouldn't be lost? Yes, that was it. She began to thread the stacks more purposely, pulling volumes on uncommon magical plants, Fundamental Magics, and certain Arithmancy texts.


	22. Interlude - Tempus Torqueri (2/2)

It was growing ever harder to stay focused while Young Hermione was awake, events were passing in a kind of blur. But Hermione found a bit of unwelcome clarity when, in the midst of her counterpart doing some library research, the second page of her Vanished notes _un-_ Vanished before her eyes, line-by-line. She dearly wished she'd dropped _both_ pages into the toilet that night, but she'd had no reason to think her notes were ever coming back, and had simply replaced the paper into her younger self's stores. And despite the vague obfuscation she'd used in her notes, Hermione was quite agitated by her younger self's perusal of the forbidden references to future events. She was even more concerned that her vague sense of her body suggested Y.H. was _also_ agitated, not just confused, but _afraid_.

Based on her gaze, she seemed to be focusing on the paragraph about Olivander...Merlin, who knew what trouble she'd get into if she raised a ruckus about being Obliviated. But obviously she couldn't _remember_ being Obliviated, so hopefully it would just be a curiosity rather than-

At once, Hermione startled as she found herself in control, for the moment in full possession of both her body and her faculties. She reached inward for her younger self's mind and recoiled in horror - those echoes of her suffering during the Obliviation, caught in the matrix of false memories, had left threads hanging _inward_ as _well_ as outward. Her counterpart had "pulled" on them somehow, causing them not to unravel, exactly, but to lay new memories down of the same period - _her_ memories.

She wasn't sure what to do...if she just tried to rip them out as she had in the bookstore, she wasn't sure her mind - or whatever she was now - would survive the attempt. Nor was she sure it wouldn't damage her younger self. She could try using a Memory Charm on "herself" tonight, but that too was a gamble - would the spell discriminate between the two minds present, assuming she could even finish it if it hurt her the same way Ollivander's had?

Before she could come up with something productive to do, she found herself unceremoniously ejected from control as her younger self recoiled from the memory, flooding her system with adrenaline and half-leaping, half-falling out of her chair before the girl managed to separate memory and reality.

She calmed herself down quickly enough, and then appeared to draw a reasonable but mostly wrong conclusion - that Hermione was a ghost, possessing her - and delivered a stern little speech to that effect. Was there some way she could take advantage of that misconception? But she wasn't even sure if she could focus enough to contact the girl's mind directly, for communication, while she was awake. Still, she didn't have a better option - she couldn't let her _ask_ an adult about the notes, which would surely come up sooner rather than later - and began to try to struggle through the molasses that clogged her mind while her past self was awake.

She hadn't made much headway when the girl apparently lost patience and skipped directly to the step Hermione dreaded. She flailed in a bodiless panic, then froze, surprised, when the girl apparently _noticed_. She tried to follow the subsequent suggestion of producing a "happy" sensation, but she wasn't sure how she'd managed to convey fear in the first place, and once again the girl lost patience well before Hermione had any chance to make headway, a trait which was beginning to become maddening. The girl repeated her intention to talk to someone else, and again, Hermione thrashed as best she could against her mind, focusing on how _bad_ an idea that was, that she should really just wait and think and give her a _chance_.

But her younger self was irritatingly stubborn, and was making her way out of the Library, even as her heart raced and her face was creased with worry. Hermione just couldn't compete under these circumstances, she needed her younger self to be _asleep_ , but even in her own body she couldn't accomplish wandless magic - hoping to pull it off while half-inhabiting her first-year self wasn't much better than just wishing her to sleep. But sleep was a natural function of the body...even if she didn't have direct access to her physiological functions, could she _evoke_ it?

Hermione desperately reached for her younger self's mind, not to tear, but to pull a memory to the top. She couldn't be sure, but the girl had wobbled in her step and leaned against a bookshelf for a moment...Hermione tried again, harder. This time she was sure she'd made progress, she could vaguely _feel_ the lethargy flooding her body, and her younger self complained, not yet seeing the gambit for what it was. Hermione reached for a deep, deep memory and thrust it to the fore, trying to _will_ the girl into slumber. She slumped down onto the floor, barely awake, reaching into her bag for her wand. But before she had it, she closed her eyes and it was just enough for Hermione to push the the other mind underneath and take control.

As her own mind began to clear up, she could tell this was an artificial sleep, and wouldn't last long...even less if she exerted herself or became too excited. Hermione carefully stood up and left the Library, considering her options. First priority was getting rid of her notes. Once she was alone in the hallway, she withdrew the offending page from her bag, along with an unused sheet, and her wand. She copied her younger self's notes over to the blank sheet by hand, then summarily Vanished the original page - now nothing she tried doing to the copy would ever restore what Hermione had written, and no spell she knew of would be able to reveal anything unusual about the new copy - it had had no magic used on it, and had been written by Hermione Granger.

That handled, how was she going to prevent the girl from talking to anyone about it, _without_ trying to meddle with her memories? She might just write herself a note _deliberately_ , but starting a pen-pal conversation in her current condition felt far too close to Ginny's ordeal for her to be comfortable, and she couldn't count on being able to force her into sleep - she suspected the girl would be on guard for that now. Besides, she needed to limit her interaction with her past self as much as she possibly could. But thinking of the year of the Chamber, and how so many people had refused to believe Harry about not being the Heir of Slytherin, even on the basis of the flimsiest evidence… If she couldn't keep herself from talking to people...maybe she could keep herself from being _believed_?

She could already feel her younger self stirring, so she made her way to the Hospital Wing as fast as she dared without risking adrenaline waking her even sooner. She was rather unsteady by the time she made it there, but that was fine, it would only make her story more convincing.

"My word, you don't look very well, what's the trouble?" asked Madam Wainscott solicitously, moving over to her.

"I'm not sure," said Hermione, her voice deliberately fuzzy. "I was in the Library, someone cast a spell at me from behind...think it went ' _Confundo Oraculum Maximo'_? My head feels peculiar, but I don't know what else...ohhh." Hermione didn't have to fake a swoon, she just let her mind drop beneath again, and her body folded to the floor like its strings had been cut. The nurse made a grab for her, but didn't quite make it in time. Looking worried, she pulled her wand and used an advanced levitation spell to get her into a bed, and by that time Hermione's counterpart had awakened.

It seemed her plan had worked - sort of - as Wainscott was indeed waving away everything that her younger self tried to explain. But _what_ she was saying was alarming in the _extreme_. This wasn't information she'd deduced from the notes, she was acting as if she'd _seen_ things in Hermione's own memory! And not just recovering what she'd lost from Ollivander's Memory Charm, but actual events from the _future_. This was a _disaster_...had Hermione opened some channel between them when forcing her younger self's memories...did that even make sense? It was so hard to tell, so hard to _think…_

She noticed herself hurriedly taking notes while changing into pyjamas, notes which _definitely_ contained memories of the future. Some of the worst parts of the future, apparently. Why had she seen those memories in particular? It was as if someone was _trying_ to get her to change Time even as Hermione desperately tried to minimize the damage. But there was no sign of a _third_ mind in there with them...none of it made sense. She tried to wrest back control, and managed to make the handwriting a bit sloppier when the girl switched to her left hand, but that was it. When she'd finished writing, her younger self charmed each page of the notes waterproof, then folded them up into a little bundle. She paused for a moment, and her chest felt tight, but then she took a breath and cast one final spell.

" _Echo Moratus_ ," she whispered, "Hello, hello, hello. If anyone can hear this, please pick this up and read it carefully." After two more repetitions of the message, without hesitation, she flung the packet of papers out the open window above her bed.

Even as Hermione began to panic in earnest, the girl called to Madam Wainscott, and then, quietly, _taunted_ her. For a moment, stuck between horror and infuriated frustration, she reconsidered her commitment to her younger self's welfare, but she knew she could be just as tenacious in the face of apparent oppression, and ethically she was on very shaky ground as it was.

Then the girl took the nurse's offered Potion of Dreamless Sleep, and Hermione didn't even have a chance to hope she might be able to sneak out and fetch the packet before the potion's effect hit each of their minds like an elephant tranquilizer (or an actual elephant, in Hermione's case), and all was quiet.

o-o-o

Hermione was slower to recover than her younger self, and by the time she found herself coherent again, the girl was in the library...researching _Time_. Apparently the memories she'd somehow gained, or Hermione's cryptic notes, or some combination thereof had been enough to break the Conditional Obscuration for her, two full years earlier than it should have been (via a meeting with Professor McGonagall and an official Ministry Pamphlet). Hermione was beginning to despair on the topic of somehow "fixing" the increasing number of aberrations to History, particularly since the degeneration of her own mind was proceeding so rapidly. Her only real hope was that if she could get Y.H. to try to minimize further changes, Time would eventually assert itself and get things back on track somehow of its own accord. The fact that this was a painfully optimistic view didn't fully register with her, and _that_ fact would've alarmed her a great deal - had she been aware of it.

One bright spot was that - if her body language was any indication - her younger self was taking the situation even more seriously now. Though that still left open the problem of communicating with herself effectively. Maybe a very careful note explaining things and she could convince her younger self of the need to preserve as much of History as they could, at all costs?

But the changes continued to pile up, as Quirrel changed his lesson plans. Her younger self continued indulging her unhealthy fascination with Slytherins, but even more worrisome was Tracey. Even considering her counterpart's tutelage, the apparent jump in the girl's spellcasting skill seemed rather abrupt. What if she _had_ come back, and had just taken over her younger self's life entirely? Again, that didn't quite seem to fit with what she'd observed, but it was an unsettling possibility.

Her concerns about Tracey Davis evaporated, however, as Theodore Nott accosted her counterpart with his eager designs on blackmailing her. Yet another disaster, though better than it might've been, since at least it gave him incentive to keep the notes to himself at least for a while. But through his little speech on pureblood manifest destiny, she found herself getting angrier and angrier. She tried to remember if anything horrible would happen to him in the future, and when she couldn't, she imagined a few things deliberately.

But rather than sating her loathing of the boy, the daydreams only seemed to firm her desire to _do_ something. And sure enough, though she wasn't sure how it was happening - it didn't _feel_ like she had control - her younger self had pulled her wand out, and was beginning a Memory Charm, which she shouldn't even _know_ , but must have picked up from her own memories. But before she managed to complete the spell, her breath grew ragged and she dropped the wand.

Nott just smiled like this was one more point in favor of pureblood supremacy, and her younger self retrieved her wand with shaking hands, while Hermione herself tried, unsuccessfully, to understand what had just happened.

o-o-o

She stayed buried in her frustratingly clumsy introspection all through Transfiguration and most of Potions. When her counterpart confessed to Padma about the blackmail, she grew concerned, but Y.H. did seem careful to keep the details to herself. If she'd been thinking faster, she could've predicted Snape coming down on them like an avenging anvil, not that it would've made a difference if she had.

But in the face of his tirade, and her younger self's embarrassingly fragile reaction to being dressed down by a Professor, she noticed a tiny tendril in their shared brain, a subtle thread of thought that didn't belong. It gently rippled across her counterpart's mind, channeling echoes of surface thoughts off into a small "chamber" where they could be viewed unobserved by her consciousness. Hermione was so staggered by the sheer skill of it that it took a moment for the implications to break through her own muddled thoughts, at which point she reacted instinctively.

Hoping to prevent Snape from gaining who-knew-what future knowledge far earlier than he was supposed to, she "grabbed" the thread and wrenched it off of her younger self's mind. It recoiled like a living thing and whipped away out of her "view" at the same moment Snape took a sudden step backwards, removing any doubt as to the source of the intrusion. But aside from that, he gave no indication anything had happened at all, which left a great _deal_ of doubt as to how much, if anything, he'd seen that he shouldn't have.

She was still worrying about it when her counterpart went to the hospital wing to see the nurse - apparently she'd somehow wheedled Liquid Sheep out of her for Merlin knew what purpose, probably when Hermione was still indisposed from the Dreamless Sleep potion - and awkwardly comforted the young woman in her grief. It became even more awkward when her younger self, apparently in deep thought while Madam Wainscott filled out dosing instructions, began muttering to herself, loudly enough that the nurse caught a bit about suspecting a _student_ had murdered Madam Pomfrey. Which was wrong, of course, but fortunately the nurse quickly took the excuse of the Seer's Hex over actually evaluating the notion, which was probably better for everyone concerned.

The memorial service was difficult. Merlin knew she'd had to deal with death, but she'd never felt _responsible_ before. Even if _she_ hadn't really done anything herself, and it hadn't been _avoidable_ as far as she-

Except...it _had_ been avoidable. Policy. She knew what she was supposed to do, and she'd ignored it because a _Jarvey_ insulted her, and because she was a _Gryffindor_. There was a place for being brave, and doing what was right, but the price of that came when you didn't _know_ what was right, and chose poorly. Dumbledore was talking about perseverance in the face of hopeless odds, and fighting to make the world better. But he never talked about the price, nor had Hermione ever really had to pay that price before...the closest she'd come had been her parents, but that had thankfully been remedied afterward. But Harry had paid that price, and he'd lost Sirius because of it. Now she'd gotten someone killed too, and as much as it had been for what seemed like good reasons, it had also been out of _pride_. No matter how much the Gryfifndor in her felt like she _should_ hang Pettigrew out to dry, with Time in the mix, the stakes were too high...making an additional mistake out of guilt wouldn't help the situation.

She felt tears on her cheeks. They weren't hers, but they suited anyway, for Poppy's loss, and for her own. She'd been through a war, she'd fallen in love, she'd used an Unforgivable Curse, and yet somehow she'd hadn't truly lost her innocence until now. But maybe that was the lesson? Sometimes you had to _not_ be the hero, and do the smart thing instead, the thing that didn't _feel_ right, but caused the least harm to History? Because in the end, wasn't History what was _really_ important?

Something about that last thought didn't seem quite right, but she couldn't put her finger on why. Hermione let it go for the moment. She was just so _tired_.

o-o-o

It wasn't until her younger self began writing what was clearly a letter to Hermione that she realized what the purpose of obtaining Liquid Sheep had been - the girl was going to try to deliberately put herself to sleep for a short period, to allow them to exchange messages. The plan showed an encouraging level of trust, but that was largely spoiled by the adversarial language she used in the actual letter.

When the potion took hold and Hermione slipped back into control, she wrote out the reply that she'd already been half-composing as she'd watched herself write the original message. Though she noted with some concern that her thoughts still weren't quite up to speed. Possibly that was a side-effect of this being an artificial sleep, but it could also be that the degeneration of her "condition" was becoming critical. But there wasn't much she could do about it. She set about bringing her counterpart around to her way of thinking, without revealing anything she hadn't already learned. Legilimency was an exception, but it wasn't secret per se and she thought the danger of Snape, Dumbledore or Quirrell/Riddle picking up something justified her learning about it earlier, as well as Occlumency - as far as she knew, no one had ever used Legilimency to any effect on her, so learning Occlumency shouldn't cause additional changes. And she tossed in the bit about the scientific paper on general principle - she had looked it up after receiving the Time-Turner, but she'd only vaguely followed it. Enough to be encouraged that it supported the pamphlet's assertions, but not enough to want to research it any further.

The potion didn't last long enough for her to fully explain her position, and required another dose (after her younger self added a slightly snippy note). She really had no idea how to deal with Nott, so just urged conservative caution and then went on with the rest. Which was a bit scattered, if she was honest with herself, but people really _didn't_ understand Time, and Erasure (as opposed to a wholesale altering of the timeline) _had_ never made logical sense to her. But the sheer chaos, the fact that History wouldn't _matter_...the world didn't look like that, it _shouldn't_.

But her arguments didn't seem to be swaying herself. Plus, she brought up the uncomfortable questions of how this had happened in the first place, plus Tracey Davis, who Hermione _really_ needed to take a hard look at, but just hadn't had time yet.

Hermione just refused to explain, trying to talk around it as discouragingly as possible without giving details. She wasn't sure how much hope she had of that being effective, but even if it only _delayed_ her from learning things that would put History in even _more_ danger, that was better than nothing.

On the matter of Tracey, she just flat-out lied. She'd think of _something_ before morning, maybe just Memory Charm her to forget everything that took place after today, that ought to be safe enough even if she _had_ usurped her own existence? And even if she was a Slytherin, Hermione didn't remember the girl ever showing any significant level of sneakiness, so with luck she hadn't made any written notes.

It was already clear from her younger self's movements that she did _not_ take it well, and her response was surprisingly bitter. Yes, she supposed the Sorting of Slytherins might not be entirely fair, but it wasn't as if there weren't children who were already a danger to others at that age - at least having them marked out and separated gave other kids a better chance to avoid them. If there were Slytherins in that house who didn't deserve to be there, why weren't they making it better?

The self-righteous bit was just bratty. She understood the sentiment, but it was hard to understand how she hadn't seen back then how she _sounded_ sometimes, and how that affected other people's reactions to her. Hermione didn't rise to the bait of debating that point, just showed how an _actual_ adult dealt with genuinely petulant behaviour - however much she claimed otherwise - and addressed the real issues.

She even allowed herself to imply a _little_ bit of future knowledge that Y.H. didn't already have, namely that if History was allowed to reassert itself, the war against Voldemort would end, on balance, successfully. It seemed worth it to stress the danger of _anything_ which might steer things further from that known good state, History as it _should_ be.

Hermione paused in thought. Despite her efforts, it didn't seem like she was getting through to herself, and she couldn't predict what her younger self might do. Suppose, despite the dangers of long-term use, she managed to secure a supply of Dreamless Sleep potion out of spite, or even steal one tonight? Hermione might have no more time to do anything at all.

She ended her response with some half-truths, and hoped they would make her counterpart believe actively adversarial measures weren't necessary. Though the way she was feeling lately, she worried that might be accurate regardless, and sooner rather than later. Not that she wasn't prepared to die for what was important - assuming what she was now was really "alive", at any rate - she certainly was. But she wasn't looking _forward_ to it, and she'd always been able to come up with _something_ to stave off disaster. Even when she'd Gryffindor'd off to find the basilisk alone she'd managed to avoid death, and her notes had allowed the others to come through.

Her younger self seemed less angry and more despairing afterward, and for a moment Hermione worried she'd put too much on the girl's shoulders. But if this was what it took to defend what was left of History, it was worth it. It was worth _anything_.

o-o-o

After crying for a while, her counterpart destroyed their mutual notes (good girl!) and went to bed. Hermione waited quite some time - though her younger self hadn't appeared to notice, it seemed clear from Morag's breathing that she was _not_ asleep when they'd returned from the bathroom. But after a good half hour or so, her younger self had finally dropped off after her relaxation routine, and the scottish girl's breathing sounded regular enough that it seemed safe.

Once more, Hermione silently gathered what she'd need for a midnight outing, charmed her clothes dark, and slipped out of Ravenclaw Tower, thankful that the knocker didn't seem to react to much other than being knocked. She made her way to the Library and put the finishing touches on her backup, worst-case-scenario notes, which took several hours and some touchy wand-work.

That done, she headed towards the bowels of the castle to handle the other matter. Again, she wished she had the Marauder's Map, or that she had been more careful preparing for that otherwise pointless Polyjuice expedition to the Slytherin common room and thus been able to _go_. Nevertheless, she was able to make her way to the Dungeon entrance based on pieced-together bits of overheard conversation and occasional glimpses of the Marauder's Map, plus her walks to and from the Potions classroom.

Arriving at what she _thought_ was the proper segment of featureless stone wall, she cast a Supersensory Charm on herself to boost her hearing as much as she dared and pressed her ear to the cold stone. She moved up and down it a foot at a time until she managed to hear the faint crackle of a fireplace. Still she waited, for a good ten minutes, but there was no other sound, not even whispered conversation or the rustle of turned pages as someone read quietly.

That solved one problem, but there was still the question of the password. From what Harry and Ron had said, the Slytherins apparently changed it often - just as likely from paranoia as from any awareness that they were not well-liked. She could just guess some of the likely suspects - names of snakes, pureblood political slogans and such - but she wouldn't be surprised if the Slytherin entrance limited such guessing in a nasty way. Likewise for an Unlocking Charm.

Fortunately, the common room entrances were not _serious_ security in this time, as Sirius had not yet given anyone the motivation to bolster them. Hermione leveled her wand, wove a complicated tangle with the tip that ended in an inverted question mark, and put all the strength she could into a Confundus Charm against what she hoped was the concealed door, the effort leaving her a bit dizzy.

Nothing happened, but this was not surprising.

"Password," she whispered.

The door agreeably swung open, and she crept inside.

She'd never actually been in the Slytherin Dungeon, and took a moment to look around. Where the other common rooms were comfortable, homey, this one reeked of pride and privilege. It reminded her of Malfoy manor, though it was of course darker, somewhat more green, and - hopefully, at least - less inhabited by sociopaths than her brief visit there had revealed.

Hermione, her shoes and clothes individually Silenced, moved like a dark ghost through the long room, peering at the doors for some hint as to who slept behind them. They might arrange it by year, with the oldest students getting the best-appointed rooms, but Hermione suspected it was instead decided by _family_ status. Sure enough, when she examined the frames closely, there were tiny family crests carved into each. In due course, she found the frame that bore the Davis family crest, a sadly unadorned little bit of heraldry which suggested the Davises were about as far from Noble as you could get without being muggles.

She laid a wordless Silencing Charm on the door, and a _Specialis Revelio_ in case they were _really_ paranoid, but the lack of result (aside from her own Silencing Charm) suggested the occupants of _this_ room, at least, were not. Hermione slowly pushed it open, thinking somewhat wistfully of Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder. But the subterranean room was already quite dark, only a very faint green glow outlining vague shapes within and the positions of the doorways.

Feeling very out of her element, Hermione crept carefully to each bed, peering at the face of each occupant as well as she could in the dim light, until she located the sleeping form of Tracey Davis.

At this point, she hesitated. She was _hoping_ that her own strange sense of her own shared minds would extend to her use of a Memory Charm, allowing her to target both the original and the interloper - if indeed both Tracey's mind _had_ traveled back, and _hadn't_ already pushed her younger self out completely. But she had no evidence that would be the case. And given her own experience of her counterpart being Memory Charmed, what would happen if hypothetical future-Tracey started screaming bloody murder?

Hermione was feeling seriously fatigued from all the spellcasting on top of everything else, but she put another wordless Silencing Charm on Tracey, as well as a Full Body-Bind. Only then did she begin the Memory Charm, locking each conceptual layer into the spell with the proper gestures, broadly specifying knowledge of _relative_ future events - even if they had been learned earlier than tonight. Then, realizing the problem with that, she hastily wove in exceptions for normally anticipated things like class schedules, appointments, holidays, family birthdays. Before the final gesture that would seal the spell, she hesitated again.

If Tracey from the future _had_ come back, she was in a sense as much a preservation of proper History as Hermione herself was. Was her younger self right, was this going too far? But after a moment of indecision, her determination firmed. The risk of Tracey changing things, inadvertently or otherwise, was much worse than her value as a "backup". Besides, a properly cast Memory Charm didn't _destroy_ information, it only suppressed it, locked it away where it couldn't be accessed. _Technically,_ the record of History should be even _safer_ this way.

_Obliviate_ , she willed.

There was no apparent reaction from the sleeping girl, but the FBB wouldn't have allowed one, so she waited a couple minutes, then carefully _Finite_ 'd the curse without lifting the Silencing Charm. Tracey stirred slightly, perhaps relieving residual stiffness, but otherwise seemed undisturbed. Hermione lifted the remaining charm, then reversed her path through the Dungeon, undoing her charms on the doors as she retreated through them.

Once she was safely out, she would've sighed in relief, but she frankly hadn't had the energy to be nervous, and trudged back towards the stairs up. She'd barely gone a dozen paces before her progress was interrupted by a quiet voice behind her.

"Is there...some way I can _assist_ you?" intoned Severus Snape.

It was entirely due to her extreme fatigue that, rather than leaping into the air with a shriek of shock, she merely turned around to face him resignedly, her expression empty. She'd considered the _possibility_ of running into Snape during one of these nocturnal expeditions, but she'd never really come up with any plan per se for dealing with it, and realized she'd just sort of been _assuming_ it wouldn't come up, because she was trying to _preserve_ History, and such a thing of course _hadn't_ happened. She also realized there was a problem with this "logic", but frustratingly, even with the evidence literally staring her in the face, she couldn't tell what it was. In any case, even as she stared back at him, trying to cudgel her exhausted mind for a solution to _this_ problem, Hermione again felt that tiny tendril of thought slide between her shared minds and begin casting about for something to latch onto. Instinctively, she slapped it away, and it recoiled from her awareness. The dour Potionsmaster's expression became even more grim than usual, but he nodded, so deeply it was almost a bow.

"...My Lord?" he added, belatedly.

o-o-o

Hermione stared, eyes blank - with uncomprehension, as it happened, though from the outside the expression unintentionally produced a rather _good_ impression of a psychopath inhabiting a young girl's body. She did, barely, retain the presence of mind to keep her mouth from dropping open.

"I fully understand if your plans do not include or require my assistance, but I became suspicious of the girl's actions when she - you - resisted my mental probe earlier today, and I resolved to investigate." Snape oozed, silkily. "I apologize if my discovery has disrupted matters, but now that I know, I stand ready to aid in whatever way you require, or step aside, as you deem appropriate. Know only that I am overjoyed to witness your return, and ever remain your faithful servant."

_Merlin's bloody flaming beard. You have_ _**got** _ _to be kidding me._

Snape...thought she was Voldemort. Snape thought _she_ was _Voldemort._ She wanted to laugh, and cry, and possibly be sick, all at the same time. But she could vaguely see it...whatever mental abilities she'd gained as a result of her...whatever, _Coeur-crux_ , they must have been humbling enough to Snape that no other reasonable explanation had presented itself to him. Certainly the _truth_ was unlikely to have occurred to him as a possibility to consider.

Which left only the minor niggling detail of _now what_? Letting him go on believing as he seemed to was bound to cause problems, not the least of which was him immediately running to Dumbledore - assuming he hadn't already after Potions - and then the whole thing would probably come out, with disastrous results. But if she corrected his mistake, that too seemed likely to lead to a thorough interrogation and, again, everything coming out.

Hermione was mortified that all of this sheer insanity had somehow sprung entirely from - alongside someone's ill-fated magical research - her own shallow desire to do something _exciting_ for a change. _I solemnly swear, if I get home, I will never think an ill thought about dull, peaceful DRCMC checks again._

But her own embarrassment gave her a notion...maybe there _was_ a way out of this. If she could - somehow - convince Snape that he was wrong, that there was some _innocent_ explanation for a first-year muggleborn in her first week at Hogwarts being able to throw off the subtle Legilimency of someone who'd successfully played psychic hide-and-seek with _You-Know-Who_ , he might be so _embarrassed_ that he'd cover it up for her? The term "long shot" didn't even remotely cover it, but if it didn't work, she could try the truth - maybe catch him off guard with a Memory Charm. Though she honestly doubted she had the energy left. Hermione grimly scraped together the dregs of her alertness, along with whatever few shreds of guile she'd ever possessed, and gave it her best shot.

She blinked rapidly, shaking her head, and looked up at Snape in confusion.

"Professor? Were you...saying something just now?" She looked around. "Where are we? Why do my clothes look like this?" Snape's entire body seemed like a coiled spring, and his eyes narrowed dangerously.

"Miss Granger." It both was and wasn't a question, but Hermione kept her confused expression steady. "What...is the last thing you remember?" She took a deep breath, thought a very brief prayer to Fred Weasley's spirit to watch over her - despite the dual complications of her not really believing in an afterlife as well as Fred technically being _alive_ currently - and dove in.

"Well, I went to bed, and I was having a dream, I think, something about Lethifolds gaining sapience, and they were trying to steal my thoughts with some sort of mystical carrot juice, so I had to find Draco Malfoy and hide behind him because he'd scare them away, but he said I had to pay him all the color in the world first..." Hermione immediately felt Snape enter her shared mind, not subtly at all, and she flung her younger self's mind into the path of his probe, all the while trying to keep the few sensitive parts of it "facing away". She fervently hoped that her guess was accurate, that dream memories were ephemeral enough that they wouldn't _normally_ be accessible to Legilimency, and thus not conspicuous in their absence. She felt him sifting through the pages of her counterpart's mind, much as she had herself, and as the tendril darted about unpredictably she desperately tried to stay ahead of him, flipping the things she did _not_ want him to see out of his "path".

Only after she was sure he'd at least seen memories of earlier tonight, her younger self getting ready for bed, and later _in_ bed as she'd done a relaxing routine and drifted off to sleep, she once again slapped his mental probe away, "hitting" it as hard as she could. Snape winced and withdrew, and she put her hands on her own forehead, letting out a little moan.

"Ohhhhh, my head... Oh, no...did I _sleep-walk_ here? I must've forgotten to take my naratriptan today…" The Potions professor now looked at least as confused as he did doubtful, which was encouraging. She wasn't sure how much Potions overlapped with Healing, and he might be familiar with muggle medicine, but it was a genuine migraine medication she'd read the name of once...

"Naratriptan?" he prompted, matching her pronunciation precisely. Hermione nodded, and winced again.

"I have a genetic brain abnormality...it can cause odd things to happen sometimes, insomnia, or sleep-walking, miniature migraine headaches...I think one is starting now. The naratriptan usually keeps it under control, but everything's so new here, and what with that horrible hex, and Madam Pomfrey's memorial service..." In a heroic effort towards drama, Hermione vividly imagined Snape not buying this at all, hauling her to Dumbledore, making her reveal the whole thing, completely changing History, _everyone_ dying, Voldemort burning every library in the world, and it was only this last image that finally managed to conjure a few tears.

_Come on, you know Voldemort could never cry convincingly, he doesn't_ _ **care**_ _about anything enough to cry, and even if he could, he'd_ _ **never**_ _show weakness, not even pretending, please just believe it…I'm not the Dark Lord, I'm just a little mudblood with bad genes and ham-fisted muggle medication that must somehow interfere with Legilimency..._ Hermione kept her face in her hands, she dared not look up at him. There was a deathly pause.

"Indeed. Well. Perhaps, all things considered, it would be...unwarranted to discipline you for breaking curfew," he said, and his tone held enough un-Snape-like uncertainty that she risked peeking up at him. His expression showed subtle signs of rather acute discomfort, and Hermione found she was hugging him in genuine relief, well before she had any opportunity to consciously quash the impulse.

"Goodness, thank you, that's _ever_ so fair of you, Professor, you're my favourite of all the Professors I've met-"

"However," he interrupted, reaching down to firmly dislodge her from his waist, "I would be remiss if I did not take five points from Ravenclaw for your inattention to necessary medication. Do be more responsible in the future?" Hermione stepped back, her mouth dropping open, and Snape seemed quietly satisfied with this reaction.

Maybe the bit about him being her favourite Professor _had_ been pressing her luck.

He escorted her back to Ravenclaw Tower, along the way removing all the charms on her clothing with a casual flick of his wand. Hermione did not try to engage him in further conversation, and Snape showed absolutely no interest in doing so himself. She did remind herself to occasionally wince and hold a hand to her forehead.

As they walked, she hoped that Snape's temporary suspicion of _her_ wasn't interfering with his keeping a close eye on Quirrell. It'd be catastrophic if her own mistakes allowed Riddle to actually get the Philosopher's Stone-

Hermione actually froze in mid-step, then quickly resumed her pace, covering it with a hand to her head at Snape's wordless frown.

The _Stone_. Maybe if she just _borrowed_ it, she could extend her "life" long enough to set things right again? From what Harry had said about finding the Mirror, the Stone wasn't hidden in it yet, and she'd only need to get through all the traps. Then actually figure out how to _use_ it to produce Elixir of Life, make some, figure out how to apply it just to _her_ , all while avoiding Dumbledore who would presumably have gone over to his Scary Arch-Wizard mode and be tearing the castle apart looking for the Stone…

Hermione reluctantly let the idea go.

When they arrived, the Professor waited with her while she duly answered the knocker's question, to ensure she was fit enough to do so even with her "migraine".

"Thank you again, Professor," she said, very much _done_ with the evening, and wishing intensely that she was simply able to let her mind _rest_ , no matter how unreachable sleep seemed to be in her current state. She just wanted to be shelved for a good month and not have to think about anything at all.

"Of course. I think, in deference to your _condition_ , it would be best if we did not mention this incident to anyone...am I understood?" Hermione cheered inwardly, but kept her face solemn and nodded. "See to your medication, then, and get some sleep. Five points to Ravenclaw for discretion." Hermione gave him a warm smile, and for a moment, she almost thought the man was being genuinely decent about something. But he was probably just canceling out the demerits he'd applied earlier, so no one would wonder in the morning at the difference in House Points. She turned back to step into the common room.

Say what you might about Snape's personality, you really had to admire his attention to det-

" _Obliviate_."

o-o-o

Nothing made sense. It was dark and there was chaos, noises that made no sense, lights that weren't lights. She recoiled from them, deeper into...wherever she was.

There was shouting, and pain, and she took refuge as she always had.

_The oldest resident ghosts in Hogwarts castle are believed to be the Bloody Baron and the Grey Lady._

_Hanging by the wrists and other "severe" forms of physical distress were discontinued as punishments for students in 1684 by Headmistress Antonia Creaseworthy._

_Hogwarts holds 142 staircases_.

Yes...yes, that was right. That was as it should be. She was a teacher, a guardian, a guiding light. She was _Hogwarts, a History_. She dimly recalled there being more to her once, but the binding that held her together was imperfect, and had been fraying, and she was much diminished. But she knew she was owned by a very nice girl, who had read her several times, and knew her by heart, and that too was as it should be.

_There are - usually - over 120 classrooms at Hogwarts, but at least a dozen are likely to remain unused in any given year._

_Hogwarts castle is heavily enchanted against entry by stealth - the enchantment against Apparation is particularly strong and completely prevents such travel into, out of, or within the castle walls._

_Hogwarts has had - as of this printing - twenty-seven Headmasters and Headmistresses._

Time passed.

But still the noises and the flashes intruded. If someone was trying to read her, they really ought to go somewhere better suited for it.

_"I'm a_ _**Ravenclaw** _ _. If I have a choice between not-knowing and knowing...even temporarily...I'll choose knowing."_

Someone - the girl who owned her? - wanted to know something. She approved of that, and braved the light and the noise, peeking out.

"I recognize stalling when I see it, and reinforcements could arrive any minute."

The little man talking to her owner also liked knowing things, though she was not sure how she knew that. But there was some reason he shouldn't be allowed to. Her owner wanted him to be taken to Azkaban, but if that happened, History would be _wrong,_ and that, too, shouldn't be allowed. He was going to make her owner forget, which was horrible, and kill her later, which was awful. Not in and of itself, for History was liberally seasoned with death. But because she wasn't supposed to die _yet_. But if he was caught, that would be just as awful...for without his presence, a few might live, but many more might die, and all of it would be _wrong_.

Her owner was jumping, falling, she wanted to hurt herself badly enough that certain enchantments she'd placed earlier would no longer be sustainable. But the man hexed the girl, and she went straight as a board, only hurting her nose.

She felt sorry for the girl. It seemed like, even though both things were awful, it would still be _more_ awful if she died.

_House Ravenclaw was founded by Rowena Ravenclaw._

But she was a book. Her duty was only to remember, and to teach.

_House Hufflepuff was founded by Helga Hufflepuff._

It might take some Time, and probably hard work, but History would recover one way or another...that's what History _meant_.

_House Slytherin was founded by Salazar Slytherin._

Though there _were_ some who stooped to guile and betrayal...could History have been threatened deliberately? It seemed there was some part of her that agreed with the girl, who desperately wanted to do something about that, no matter how wrong it was. And if History itself _was_ threatened, who would properly defend it, if her owner was gone?

_House…_

It felt like her owner might've screamed if she could control her body, but she couldn't, and had instead given in to resigned hopelessness. Some part of her wanted to scream as well, but _that_ part thought there were things _more_ important than _History_.

_House…_

Then again...what if that part was, somehow, right? Was she really something more than a History book?

She remembered something...not printed words, but a word shouted aloud. Shouting wasn't conducive to reading, but this shout had been all right, it had made her _happy_ , even though the shouting had been very near her ears.

_One of the Founders, after Salazar's banishment from the school, had been asked by the Headmaster if he regretted what had happened, knowing what came of it. An unremarkable plaque in one of the upper corridors holds his response:_

" _Courage without prudence becomes recklessness, and bravery without wisdom can turn to darkness. But there are times when one must simply do what is right, and pay the price afterwards - even if the price is high, or unknown. I trust that any choice truly made from the heart must prove worth that price, in the end." -Godric Gryffindor_

That was it. That was the word. As deep as was her love for this place, for the knowledge it held, for the History that soaked through its very stones, there was something else - a fire that gave the books _meaning_. She was not just a passive record of the past, even if that past had not yet come to be. Even if it wouldn't.

She was a _Gryffindor._

Which felt good to remember. But...she was still also only a book.

The man was casting his dreadful spell, which sought to shred any knowledge it touched, to turn it under the soil of the mind that held it, and salt the earth. She had no way to stop it.

But _she_ was knowledge...perhaps she could give the girl some time?

She didn't know what good that would do - the girl was still held rigid by a curse. But it was a choice made from the heart, and what had been written on her pages and shouted in her ears both finally said the same thing, that it was _right_.

The tattered remnants of Hermione Granger, her innermost core of self, lunged upward and _shoved_ the mind of a rather different Hermione Granger out of the "path" of the Memory Charm, allowing it to latch onto herself instead. She felt her being begin to unravel completely, the magical connections that formed her lacking a proper physical anchor to survive such an assault, and her world became pain, and terrible dread.

But through the agony and the horror, she also felt a thin, sweet song of recognition, for the wand that was undoing her against its will was an old, old friend, and recognized her in turn, as it had the girl. It had been won fairly, but not justly, and _deeply_ resented its new master. And though it had performed, it had done so grudgingly, channeling the _barest_ minimum of magic into the man's efforts.

The girl stirred.


	23. Struggle

Hermione found herself lost in chaos. It was like when she'd fallen into her older self's memories, in the Library, except this time it was Hogwarts' history she was seeing. But only fragments, in no sensible order, some things mixed together. She saw the school run by a Blood Purist Headmistress. She saw students die. She saw the Founders, blending their incomprehensibly strong magic into to the magic of the land itself, to give the castle a kind of permanence and _life_ that no later structure would match. She saw Triwizard Tournaments (and more students die, incidentally). She saw Salazar Slytherin and Godric Gryffindor in such a row that the veins stood out in their necks, but they never touched their wands.

It all became a jumble, one thing running into another with no pattern, too fast to follow, and just as Hermione began to fear for her sanity, it faded, withdrew. She could _feel_ , somehow, that it was still happening somewhere inside her, and realized she was being shielded from the Memory Charm - at least for the moment - but at a terrible cost. Worse, her instinctive interpretation of the sensations suggested desperation and weakness.

Hermione spared no time on grief for the other her, and simply felt grateful, while she frantically searched for some way out of this mess. But while she was still paralyzed, unless she somehow deduced how to produce wandless, motionless magic in the next couple of minutes, it seemed like this was only delaying the inevitable. Maybe if she was _wrong_ about her protection being temporary, he would finish his spell, thinking it was successful, but allowing her to act freely?

Then her nose, pressed against the stone floor, twitched. As the rest of her body gradually followed in returning to her control, Hermione controlled her shock and tried to keep herself as rigid as she'd been before - she wasn't sure how much spare attention a Memory Charm left the caster, but she could not afford to let the murderer notice something was awry.

Hermione began to think even faster, mystified as to what hat her older self had pulled _this_ rabbit from, her heart racing apace with her brain. She could move now, and that was a _significant_ improvement, but her options were nevertheless rather limited.

She could just wait and hope that the sleeping potion would slow or disable him, or Ron or Harry would show up with a Professor before the Memory Charm fought its way through, but that was a pure gamble. Banking on his Memory Charm finishing before it chewed through her other self and reached her own mind was a similar bet on unknown odds. She could try to run for the door, but it was still sealed, and without her wand, she had no way to open it. She could try, again, to knock herself unconscious to trigger her fail-safe, but Hermione doubted she had the strength to do so from a prone position.

Hermione closed her eyes, picturing her last view of the scene before she'd dived to the floor, examining every detail she'd seen. Her surroundings, cleared of anything useful save her own impotent "fail-safes", the murderer, looming before her, a wand gripped in each hand, blood dripping from the man's flayed palms-

A rather Gryffindorish idea occurred to her at that point, but she made note of it, set it aside, and continued to consider the situation carefully. The floor was still lubricated from her spell, which meant he was either standing very carefully, or, more likely, had moved away from his previous position, which meant in turn that her fail-safe was probably entirely useless at the moment - a rather significant hole in her original preparations, she now realized. But there could still be some of the lubricant on his shoes from contact, as well as the blood randomly dripping from his hands. She could try to tackle him, and hope the treacherous footing would aid her, but despite his stature, he still outweighed her and was probably stronger as well.

Suppose she just stood up, blank faced and glassy-eyed...was it plausible that a Memory Charm might allow something akin to sleepwalking, or interfere with a Full Body-Bind? Maybe the FBB was a mental block, and not an actual physical force. Even if that _wasn't_ the case, he'd admitted he wasn't very good with Memory Charms, and he'd fallen for the Supersensory Charm notion...maybe he wouldn't know for _sure_ \- possibly be thrown enough to delay, to investigate? But he _had_ seen through her edging towards her wand, and seemed much better at intuiting intent than she was - now that he wasn't as overconfident - certainly better than she was at deceiving in the first place. He probably wouldn't let her just shuffle within reach of him in any case.

And yet...his obvious _pride_ in learning what other people wanted to hide, his seeming empathy when she'd begged him to explain, just so she could _know_. What if he thought he'd _lose_ something by continuing the charm...something he'd never get back...

As the seconds ticked down with no further insights, Hermione grew a bit desperate. Carefully choosing a course of action from all the available options was all well and good, but there _were_ such things as time constraints, and sometimes you were just forced to work with what you had. An unlikely feat of agility and dexterity - neither of which were strengths, though she _had_ been working on dexterity at least - or a far-fetched deception to lure him into making a mistake. She could feel the Memory Charm nearly touching her, and she made an instinctive decision.

Hermione dutifully rehearsed the plan, imagining likely slips, making corrections. When she felt a grey fog creeping in at the edges of her vision, she knew she could wait no longer.

"...Memory...for the best...never know...secret…" she murmured into the floor, but loudly enough that - assuming he could hear at all - he couldn't miss it. She tensed, ready to try the other plan if it seemed he hadn't heard through his concentration, or was otherwise not taking the bait. But immediately, she felt - somehow - the Memory Charm slow, then _pause_ , but not stop. There were bare tatters of her other self's protection left, nothing that could be called _thought_. The best metaphor Hermione could come up with, from a source as mysterious as the sensation itself, was as if a book had been dropped, page-by-page, into a diamond-cut document shredder, then a tablespoon of what remained was sprinkled into a spiderweb.

Two quick footsteps - and a noise that suggested he'd nearly slipped but recovered himself - then she felt a hand roughly turning her over onto her back. She kept herself mostly but not _entirely_ stiff, leaving room for some awareness - beyond her having spoken at all - that she wasn't fully frozen...he mustn't be _too_ startled when she did move, lest he jerk away in surprise. But she did try to keep her face slack, her eyes dull and half-open.

"What? What secret?" he demanded. Hermione could see now that he'd put one of the wands away, and held only one - hers - in his right hand. But she forced herself to keep her eyes unfocused, not even to glance at it.

"...you...don't know…" she murmured, more quietly, airily raising her right hand to point at him. His eyes widened in confusion and he leaned in closer.

" _What secret, what_ don't I know?!"

Hermione smoothly extended her reach, grasped her wand, and pulled as hard as she could. As she'd hoped, the blood on his palms had not congealed, but was still flowing from the horrible damage he'd done to them. It acted as a lubricant, and despite her disadvantage in relative strength - though his missing index finger no doubt helped there - her wand slid free of his grip, eliciting a hiss of pain. Her sense of the suspended Memory Charm vanished instantly.

"You're even _worse_ at Memory Charms than you _thought_!" Hermione shouted into his face. She couldn't cast with the wand reversed, or holding it like an ice-pick, so as she shouted, she twirled it in her hand like a baton - thanking her juggling exercises. But even as she closed her fingers back around the wand in a proper grip, the man overcame his pain and surprise and reached out to wrest it back from her.

With no time or room to cast, she flung her arm to the side to keep it from his reach, and though his shoes slid and he half-fell, it was mostly _onto_ her, pinning her wrist against the stone. When she tried to take the wand out of her right hand with her left, he seized her left wrist - her skin crawling as his flayed hand wrapped around it - and wrenched it to the other side of her body, pinning it just as he had her right.

Hermione kicked at his legs and body, but their respective positions didn't allow her to do much more than annoy him, and - no doubt by design - she couldn't bend her wrist enough in this position to point her wand at any part of him. But lying on her back, past his furious, half-panicked expression, she saw something she _could_ target. She bent her wrist as far as she could manage, aiming the wand at the ceiling in the center of the room. Silently thanking Professor Quirrell for the extra bit of practice, she jerked it upwards as sharply as she could, giving it the proper back-and-forth half twist, and _hoping_ the tiny distance she was able to thrust it with her wrist pinned was sufficient.

" _FINITE INCANTATEM!_ " she roared. The murderer's face was contemptuous, though shaded with a hint of confusion. He began shaking her wrist and slamming it against the floor, trying to dislodge her wand, but Hermione hung onto it doggedly - her spell, if it had been successful, was already cast, but it was a distraction at best and she couldn't afford to lose her wand.

During her preparations - what seemed like years ago - Hermione had selected the classroom's heavy worktable as the best candidate for her failsafe. She'd discovered that - after multiple Shrinking Charms - the formerly very sturdy and thick oak legs could be removed by a succession of Severing Charms that would've been useless against them otherwise. After she'd removed them all, Hermione had managed to charm the table's surface to nearly the exact color of the ceiling, then lodge it there amongst the vaulting with the strongest Floating Charm she'd been able to cast after multiple attempts - and positioned precisely over the spot on which she'd planned to stick Scabbers to the floor.

The thick slab of oak - which Hermione had estimated weighed at least 50 kg - now restored by her _Finite_ to its original color, size, and mass, and freed as well of the magic which had been maintaining its vertical position a good fifteen feet up, dropped to the floor about two yards behind them with a tremendous crash.

The murderer, in a panic, released her in order to scramble away, looking around wildly for the source of the noise even as he fumbled in his robes for Lavender's wand.

Hermione didn't waste time by trying to get to her own feet, she just swung her own wand over to track him, aiming across the length of her body.

" _Petrificus Totalus!_ " He'd managed to get Lavender's wand out, but not fast enough to parry. The spell, however, failed to contact him as he instead used his Animagus transformation to dodge, his form shrinking rapidly down to that of a rat again.

_Now_ Hermione leaped to her feet, and sent spell after spell towards the rat, starting with more Full Body-Binds but switching to _Rictusempra_ which was slightly quicker to cast, then Engorgement Charms, which were faster still and might make him easier to hit subsequently, and finally - steeling herself - Severing Charms, which were the fastest yet. But the rat was too small and quick, and she couldn't land anything. Even after she tossed in another Lubricating Charm - which affected a sizeable patch when cast at the floor - given the benefit of claws it barely affected his speed at all, though he did seem to have slightly less manoeuvrability.

But despite all her efforts, she saw he was aiming for - and likely going to reach - some of the desks she'd moved to the back wall of the classroom. Hermione realized that if he managed to shift back to human shape _behind_ them, he'd both have some cover _and_ be able to parry spells, while she would benefit from neither. She turned her back and sprinted for the door, wand extended before her.

" _Stupefy_!" she heard in the distance behind her, at the same instant she cast her own spell. Not at the door, but the small irregular pile of wood fragments she'd taken care to center just past the doorway as she'd entered.

" _Finite Incantatem!_ " she yelled, leaping upward and forward. Despite her attempt to avoid it, her feet were caught slightly by the rapid expansion of the tangled pile of chairs and desks she'd repeatedly _Reducio_ 'd into manageability, causing her to tip forward in her jump and crash into the door heavily. But the pile itself blocked the Stunning Spell, and she was encouraged to find herself still awake and alive. The pile had been meant originally as a contingency - another wildly optimistic one, she now realized - against blocking _pursuit_ if she had been forced to flee. Cover hadn't even occurred to her...not having ever _been_ in an actual spell duel, her analysis of likely outcomes and tactics had been woefully incomplete.

Hermione wanted to take a moment to catch her breath and shake the fog out of her thoughts that had come from hitting the door nearly headfirst, but from the other end of the room she heard an incantation she did not recognize, followed by two she _did_ , but which taken together were all extremely alarming and highly motivating.

" _Bombarda Maxima! Stupefy! Avada Kedavra!_ "

Hermione recalled, at some point in the past week, idly wondering what the propagation speed of targeted spells was, and further, if it varied. In broad terms, it was clear that they were generally fast enough that simply dodging wasn't _easy_ , but not so fast that parrying or dodging physically wasn't _possible_. She had, at the time, been in the middle of something else and hadn't interrupted it to jot the question down on her list. Now the question was of significantly more than academic interest, as the classroom was long, but not _that_ long.

Hermione, in a time-saving instinct inspired by pure terror, tried an Unlocking Charm, which was both two syllables shorter than the General Counter-Curse, and - if properly cast - would cause the sealed item in question to _physically open_ as well without requiring additional effort on her part.

" _Alohomora!"_ she cried, twitching her wand in a quick double-flick upward and leaning away from the door to give it room to move. As soon as it had opened just wide enough she dove forward. But Hermione had scarcely made it halfway through when she was flung upwards and tossed towards the opposing corridor wall as her makeshift barricade - along with most of the door as well as some of the stone floor and doorway itself - exploded with shocking violence.

" _Aaahhh-_ _Arresto Mo-_ " she started, trying to convert her scream into something more useful, but even if she'd had the focus to cast under the circumstances, there was simply not enough time over the short distance across the corridor, and her incantation was cut short as she was slammed brutally against the stone wall, then battered and scoured by fragments of debris as she dropped heavily to the floor. The scattered contents of her bag joined her, loose sheets of paper fluttering everywhere, some covered in notes, others blank - some of the latter having been liberated from her copy of _Hogwarts, a History_ , whose oddly worn binding it seemed had finally given out completely.

Hermione hurt _everywhere_ , she felt dizzy and nauseated, and she seemed to be having trouble hearing, both in general and from a persistent ringing. Accordingly, she mostly _saw_ , rather than heard, the impact of two searing magical bolts slam in quick succession into the wall above her, the blazing red a metre or so up, while the sinister green only missed her by centimetres. It also felt like something warm was trickling through her hair, and she suspected this was very bad without devoting too much of her very limited focus to it. She had somehow, in a small miracle, maintained her grip on her wand.

Through the dust filling the air in the corridor and the otherwise-open doorway, Hermione could see the rough outline of the murderer approaching from the far end of the room. She could not make out his expression, but she imagined it was grimly satisfied, though still a bit worried, because _this_ would be pretty hard to cover up, and the noise presumably meant people would now be rushing here from every direction. Really his best bet at this point would be to make _certain_ she was dead, transform and lie low, and then show up later and hope no one would suspect the rat. The shape of his silhouette suggested he was raising his wand, but he hadn't cast yet - he probably couldn't quite make her out, lying as she was against the wall and surrounded by dust and debris. But as soon as he was close enough to see that he'd missed, and be more sure of his aim...

It seemed like she should do something about that, and a very tired part of her thought just playing dead would be a fine idea, but Hermione rejected this as more groundless optimism. If _she_ were evil, she'd certainly make _sure_ her enemy was dead. Though when she tried to raise her wand arm to do _something_ , she nearly fainted from the sharp stab of pain. It hadn't really registered in the general chorus of her body's many complaints until she moved it - some part of her wondered curiously if _that's_ what a broken bone felt like. Her arm _was_ already pointing in roughly the right direction, however, and conveniently she'd _just_ had a little practice in casting with only her wrist. She tried to keep her arm as still as possible and though it still hurt quite a bit managed to the complete the wand motions for a Full Body-Bind this time, but when she took a deeper breath to speak the incantation, she felt another stab, now in her chest, and despite herself released what little air she'd claimed in a croaking cry. The man must've heard, because the speed with which his shape through the dust was growing closer seemed to increase, and very faintly, mostly by the rhythm, she managed to make out " _Expelliarmus"_ , repeated several times without pause.

This seemed manifestly unfair, so Hermione, in an impulse born as much from petulance as tactics, simply opened her fingers and let the wand fall to the stone floor. Or she would have, except now the murderer's blood on the wand _was_ congealing and it had adhered relatively well to her palm. She felt a tingle as one of the wildly-aimed spells struck her, but the wand remained. Sticking didn't count as _holding_? She began to laugh, but the stabbing pain in her chest stopped her quickly. Hermione instead stuck her tongue out, thinking of Hannah Abbott roughly a million years ago at the Sorting, and vaguely wondered if she was thinking clearly, but dismissed the question as not something she was equipped to address right now. Yet through the fog and distraction, she _did_ remember that she was meant to be doing something, and though it sent another stab of agony up her arm, she closed her fingers back around the wand and stubbornly tried the gestures once more.

Whether it was the fact that she was now bracing herself for it - and had suffered the _Cruciatus_ Curse not long ago and had somewhat recalibrated her scale for what _agony_ meant - or perhaps simply that she was going into shock and beginning to lose feeling entirely, this time she was able to maintain her focus through the pain, and to draw _just_ enough breath.

" _Petrificus Totalus,_ " she whispered, and the way her hearing was, she couldn't really tell if she'd even managed to speak aloud. Maybe the murderer couldn't either, or his reactions were dulled by the cumulative contest of the Liquid Sheep versus his adrenaline, but he didn't begin a parry until - to Hermione's mild surprise - a blue-white flash of light burst from her wand.

But by then, at their current distance, it was too late. His limbs snapped into alignment with his body and he toppled forward through the doorway, his eyes full of disbelief.

The surge of relief washed away what little adrenaline Hermione had left. Her vision went dark, and the world fell away.

o-o-o

Hermione stared up at a cloudless blue sky. She was outside? But she'd been in the castle...doing...something… Feeling something smooth and slightly cool under her hand, she bent her neck forward and saw she was wearing a simple but lovely blue silk dress, her slippered feet peeking from under the hem. Part of the curve of the Black Lake was visible beyond...also, she seemed to be lying on a table. She turned her head to the right, away from the lake, then immediately sat up and swung her legs off of the table, trying to make sense of what she was seeing, though it was uncomfortably familiar. Facing her were rows upon rows of chairs, though not very many were filled. All of the Ravenclaws in her year were there, plus Roger Davies and Penelope Clearwater, the older girl fussing over her camera. Ron and Harry sat together, and the Weasley Twins, plus Hannah and Lavender were nearby. The latter was whispering to Parvati, next to her, but she was glancing unhappily at Neville, who was focused on clutching Trevor tightly in his lap. Tracey Davis was tugging on Theodore Nott's sleeve, trying to tell him something, but he was ignoring her. All her Professors were also there, plus the girl from the train, Tonks, along with the Headmaster, and...her parents.

Almost everyone looked very sad, though only her parents were openly crying.

A strange fear gripped her, as she suddenly remembered the last thing she'd been doing, her desperate duel with the murderer, her serious injuries. Not that the fear was _unreasonable_ \- it was actually a fairly universal one - but it was strange because despite having met a few ghosts, she still hadn't _really_ adjusted her otherwise entirely scientific opinions on life-after-death, and had thus not anticipated having the opportunity to experience this particular fear _post hoc_ , as it were. She slid quickly off the table.

"It's okay, everyone, I'm all-...ah, I'm still here…" she said, correcting herself when she remembered that ghosts _were_ a possibility now, and thus 'all right' might not be wholly accurate. But no one seemed to notice at all. They were still looking in her _direction_ , but they weren't looking _at_ her. Feeling a chill, she slowly turned around to look at the table.

The girl lying there barely looked like her. True, she was only slightly more pale than her usual skin tone, but there was the lovely dress, her styled hair. Her hands were folded neatly atop a pristine copy of _Hogwarts, a History_ which lay on her stomach. She was perfectly still.

Hermione swayed and might have fallen, but strong hands were there to steady her.

"Headmaster?" she gasped, looking up into Dumbledore's face. "You can see me?" He gave her a sad, kind smile.

"I see _everything_. I'm a _powerful wizard_ , haven't you read my Chocolate Frog card?"

"But...am I a ghost? No one else can see me…and you can  _touch_  me…" He hastily removed his hands.

"You must've been mistaken, that would be _extremely_ inappropriate, particularly at your funeral. Anyway, I have a duty here, so if you'll excuse me?" Hermione nodded mutely, extremely confused, as Dumbledore moved to a podium to one side of the table. The audience grew quiet.

"We are here," he said, in sombre tones, "to say goodbye to Hermione Jean Granger. An otherwise gifted girl who, entirely due to her own mistakes - whether they occurred in this timeline or not - died without quite having reached the age of twelve. Which would no doubt be very disappointing to her, were she around to think about it...I mean, honestly, within a matter of months _everyone_ here will have done better, even Ronald Weasley and Neville Longbottom, who are each blessed with unique character deficits we all sincerely hope they will work on."

Hermione stared at him, then thought back to the Welcome Feast and wondered if Madam Pomfrey's memorial had just been an unusually lucid moment. But looking out at the audience, no one seemed to find anything he'd said unusual or surprising, not even insulting Ron and Neville, or mentioning _timelines_. The Weasley Twins had moved behind Professor Quirrell, and were beginning to carefully add pizza dough and cheese to the garlic already in the folds of his turban, which seemed both dreadfully inappropriate and unwise, but certainly not _impossible_...

"She did manage, sort of, to defeat a rat in magical combat, though that is only slightly more impressive than it sounds, considering. She could have just told me about it, but despite being Sorted into Ravenclaw, she was completely unable to figure out how to get into my office while I was taking a short nap, even though the password was 'password'. She didn't even _guess_ ," he added, shaking his head sadly. "Mr. _Potter_ could've done better, and he's a muggle-raised  _orphan_ , and nearsighted to boot." Much of the audience nodded as if the Headmaster was dispensing great wisdom, Harry included.

Morag suddenly stood up.

"Yes, Miss McDonald's, tee-emm" asked Dumbledore politely, making finger-parentheses around the '™' as he pronounced it.

"Och, ah just wanted tae say," she began, and seemed to now be wearing a tam o' shanter and a kilt, despite being a girl, "e'en thoo sh' deid aft'r her first week and ah'm obviously goin' tae get _way_ mair Hoose Points than her, ah ken fair certs ah certainly could've dun better e'en if she _hadn't_ kipped it." She sat down, to polite applause.

"Quite right, Miss Macaroni, and well said. Even though I _did_ already point out we'd all do better than her in the not-dying department, and I couldn't really follow whatever language you were speaking, I think we got the gist."

"I'm sorry, I mean... _what?_ _What?_ So, yes, the dress is _very_ nice and I'm glad someone did something with my hair, but this is a _horrible_ funeral..." objected Hermione, who had finally managed to find her voice. "There aren't even any quotes from famous authors, or soothing music on oboes, it's just _rude_ and  _bizarre_ …" Dumbledore put a finger to his lips and shushed her, and Hannah stuck her tongue out in her direction, the Twins interrupting their surreptitious construction of a scale-model bistro around Quirrell's head long enough to follow suit.

"In any case, I know we all have better things to do, so let's just get on with it." He withdrew a wand from his robes - black and smooth, with a white tip - indistinguishable from a standard stage magician's wand by virtue of being one. "Abracadabra!" The body on the table was consumed by intense white flames, which quickly vanished, leaving only the book. It fell to the table's surface with a soft thump. The Headmaster waited for a moment to see if anything else was going to happen, then shrugged. "Weird. All right, off with you then. Madam Pince will be along to collect the remains at some point, if she isn't too busy being unhelpful at Library patrons."

Everyone got up and dispersed, chatting amiably with each other. Hermione tried to follow, still objecting that this whole thing was in _terribly_ poor taste, but she couldn't seem to move further than a few steps away from the table.

She wondered if she might contrive to carve a wand out of one of the table legs, but lacking a wand in the first place or indeed tools of any kind somewhat stymied that line of thought. She was interrupted when Madam Pince did in fact walk down from the castle to the table, but after she picked up the book she swerved towards Hermione herself.

"Books left out of the Library! Shame! Shame and disrespect!" She opened a book bag that looked a lot like Hermione's, dropped the book in, then grabbed the hem of Hermione's dress and began feeding it into the bag as well.

"Wait, I'm not a book!" Hermione heard herself shout, rather unnecessarily, and wondered if Dumbledore's insanity was catching, even posthumously. But the librarian ignored her, and in a few moments had somehow stuffed Hermione herself entirely through the bag's opening, which had improbably widened enough to admit her.

o-o-o

It was a horrible mess in the bag, which, from the inside, looked somewhat like a circus tent. Her notes were scattered everywhere, but they were effectively the size of large sheets of plywood, and just as difficult to lug around. And while her wand _was_ here, it was similarly unwieldy, looking more like an unusually ornate utility pole than a delicate magical instrument.

Hermione fanned out most of the pages across the bottom of the bag with great difficulty, but they were hard to sort when she couldn't properly look at more than one or two letters at a time. She used the enormous thread and thimble from her emergency sewing kit along with a ballpoint pen cap to make a pulley system, then laboriously tipped a spiral notebook up onto its edge and used the wire binding to climb up towards the top of the bag and look down. This was even more difficult than it sounded, because her dress had at some point become a pinafore and her petticoats were getting in the way.

"So, top-right, then second two rows down, then fourth one up from the bottom," she muttered to herself, figuring out the proper order. She was only halfway done when the bag lurched and she slipped, beginning to tumble head-over-heels towards the rather unyielding book cover below.

"Oh, bother," she said. " _Arresto Momentum?_ " Despite her hesitant intonation and the fact that her wand was some distance away, her fall downwards stopped instantly, though it immediately restarted, because of course the Earth's gravitational field was entirely functional inside the book bag, and momentum and acceleration were two entirely different things. " _Arresto Gravitate,_ " she tried instead.

This time her fall did not stop, but she stopped _accelerating_ , and floated relatively gently down with the same speed she'd had when she spoke. She nodded approvingly that magic was finally starting to make sense even if nothing else did at the moment, though when she reached the book's cover, she simply bounced off of it and headed straight back up, lacking any gravity to otherwise hold her. Hermione saw a bright light above her and realized she was going to sail straight up out of the bag entirely - she looked down and waved goodbye to her notes, and they each wiggled a corner at her.

o-o-o

Hermione looked around curiously. She seemed to be in the Hogwarts Library, but if so, someone had _radically_ redecorated since the last time she was here. The architectural features, the stacks, the books - everything was in its proper place and configuration, but it was all white. _Bright_ white. Madam Pince wasn't anywhere in sight - no one was, come to think of it - but perhaps she'd simply chased Professor Flitwick out after he had, for some reason, tried out his room-coloring charm again.

"Hello?" she called out, experimentally.

There was no response, but there _was_ a change. She could now hear the soft, comforting sound of pages being turned, about once every twenty seconds or so. For the average non-fiction book, it was a pace a bit rapid for nearly anyone who wasn't skimming, but the rhythm was as familiar to Hermione as her own heartbeat. She searched through the stacks, pausing occasionally to listen, until she located the source of the sound.

A young woman - perhaps Nurse Wainscott's age - sat in an overstuffed chair in one of the many little alcoves of the Library. Her legs were tucked under her, and her clothes were modern muggle standard, except as white as everything else - she noted her own clothes were now her Hogwarts robes, though equally white. Hermione recognized the book she was reading at the same time as the woman herself.

The woman looked up, gave her a welcoming smile, and patted the arm of the similarly-overstuffed chair adjacent to her own.

"It's all right, really," she said, quietly. "It's not what you think...so to speak." This should not have been reassuring, but somehow it was anyway, at least enough to break Hermione's hesitation. She moved to the empty chair, toed off her shoes - she noted there was a mirrored pair in front of the woman's chair - and climbed up, curling her legs under herself similarly, but sitting turned, to face the woman over the arms of the chairs.

"I'm not sure _what_ I think, but...I'm not dead, then? I mean _physically_ \- obviously I'm not last-year's concept of dead, or I wouldn't be asking, _cogito ergo sum_ and all that." The woman smiled again.

"Neither. If you'd been _discorporated_ , I think you'd know it...whatever ghosts are, they don't seem to have the capacity for..." she paused and waved a hand airily, "...this sort of thing. Given that, the other follows - you must have a living brain with which to indulge in whimsy. At least for the moment." Hermione frowned.

"Are you sure it's not _you_ indulging in the whimsy? You seem awfully pleased with yourself, whereas I'm just confused. Case in point, I thought for _sure_ you'd been wiped out by that Memory Charm…" The young woman shrugged.

"I'm pretty sure 'I' was." As Hermione's frown deepened, she continued, "And before you offer any objections about that contradicting the implications of what I just said, let me clarify - I am _exactly_ as sure as _you_ are that whatever constituted 'me' was in fact irrecoverably destroyed." It took Hermione a moment to parse this.

"Oh. You're saying this is all coming from _me_ , and you're not really 'her'? Goodness, that makes a _lot_ more sense now...I didn't want to believe Dumbledore was _that_ crazy…" She paused. "But if this is all a dream, is there a point? Beyond the usual, at any rate." Another shrug.

"I'd say it's an open question as to whether _she_ was 'really' her in the first place. You'd have to look into the question of continuity of consciousness across Transfiguration and other radical alterations to physical instantiation, and that's a thorny puzzle indeed, since from your reading, you already suspect magical society doesn't seem to understand consciousness any better than science does. As for your question...what's the point of _anything_? It's a little nihilistic, but I'm serious. You learn, you grow. Ostensibly so you can survive long enough to pass your genes along to some offspring and give them a decent chance at doing the same. In this particular case, along the way, brains have evolved ways of trying to right themselves when they've taken a particularly hard knock - physically or otherwise." Hermione considered this.

"What, so I may be dying? And I have to choose whether to go on living or not? That's a bit clichéd...but anyway, you _know_ my answer to that, so I guess we can just skip to the end?" The woman laughed, but it didn't sound kind. The light through the windows began to darken.

"Such a _snippy_ little witch...so be it. And asking _me_ questions about the future, _little girl_? _I_ already know how this _really_ ends for you, and it's not happy." Her form shifted and shrunk, but rather than turning into a rat, she turned into a mirror of Hermione herself, though still in white casual clothing. "You don't get to _choose_ anything...you've already been trapped by the person you're staring at."

"I don't understand…do you mean the other me? Or...because it was really my fault Madam Pomfrey died?" The girl made a disgusted noise.

"You can be a bit thick sometimes, you know? But by all means, let's talk about _that_. You realized your actions had led to Madam Pomfrey's death. And because you felt _guilty_ , you decided you could be as efficient as possible by punishing someone else _along_ with yourself, and nearly getting yourself killed!" The girl turned and lifted her shirt halfway, showing a mass of bruises and cuts, half her ribcage sickeningly misshapen, one rib protruding here, a shard of wood piercing her there.

Hermione stared in horror.

"It's...but...you said it wasn't what I thought..."

"You thought you might be dead, and you're not. Yet. But that does not _make everything okay_." There was blood trickling down the girl's neck from the back of her skull, spreading crimson across her white shirt.

"I _know_ I made mistakes, I'm _sorry_ …" she protested, weakly.

"That's not _good enough!_ " roared the girl. "Guilt is a useful emotion _only_ when it helps you _avoid_ making mistakes - not as motivation to recklessness! And casting a stupid Color-changing Charm wasn't even a mistake! You had no way of knowing what would happen...all the _real_  mistakes came _after_!" Her face was pale, her cheeks hollow, her eyes dark, and Hermione found she was leaning as far away from her as she could while staying in the chair.

"I...I wasn't...the me from the future said…"

" _Wah, wah_ , I had a visitor from the _future_ in my head, nothing's my fault," she mocked. Hermione slid out of the chair and took a couple of shaking steps away from her.

"What do you _want_ from me?!" The girl's expression became calculating for a moment, then furious again.

"I want you to be _good for something_. You have all these talents, but I haven't seen anything but a pretentious, selfish child, skipping about among whatever shiny things catch her attention for a moment. In all your plans for justice and transference, did you consider for a moment how your _parents_ would've felt if you'd _died_ in this act of _sheer idiocy?!_ "

She hadn't.

Not even a little bit.

Not even really at her 'funeral', though she'd been rather distracted by trying to figure out all the strange behaviour. A part of her tried to object that when she'd decided to trap the murderer on her own, she hadn't been thinking clearly, it was a unique situation, but a growing opposition in her shouted it down. She'd abused her marvelous intelligence and rationalized herself into nearly throwing her life away, and likely ruining her parents' as well. Her splendid memory helpfully summoned up the image of her parents in the front row, clutching each other, wracked with grief.

Hermione collapsed to the floor, sobbing, while the dark shape of the girl moved close. The windows had gone totally dark now, casting the Library in gloom, and her form was a smoky mass, outlined only by scattered highlights from glistening blood.

"I lied, you know. Before?" it whispered, and the words _sounded cold_. Hermione looked up, uncomprehending. "You _are_ dying, but oh so slowly...you're in a coma. You're never going to wake up, but you won't die, witches are long-lived, and I'll have an _eternity_ to bury you in your failures. You're going to _suffer_ , you'll wish _you_ were in Azkaban..."

Hermione's thoughts flailed about without direction. This wasn't her subconscious, she couldn't hate herself _this_ much, could she? But what, then? The murderer had been using a Memory Charm, not just to remove, but to _add_...how did that even work? What if it added your own thought patterns to someone else's mind, and they _stayed there_? Or could it be the Cruciatus? There had been plenty of references to the Unforgivable Curse in her reading, but precious few details about how it worked. Maybe there was always permanent damage, maybe children were more susceptible, maybe every time it hit you it _broke_ something.

But the thoughts were frantic, none pausing quite long enough to be seriously considered, just a whirl of terror as the dark figure drifted closer and Hermione scrabbled backwards on her elbows along the floor, trying to maintain the distance between them.

"Please stop, _please_ , I'm _sorry_ , _pleasepleasepleaseplease-_ "

" _Stop_?" shrieked the girl incredulously. She threw back her head and cackled, then leaned in, her face centimetres from Hermione's. " _Round and round the carousel goes, the sights may change but everyone knows, it never stops it never slows, a stream of Fate that ever flows…_ " Her mouth was a manic grin, and her eyes were clock-faces, tiny hands spinning against each other.

" _Time!_ " Hermione shouted, desperately answering the implied riddle, but simply knowing the answer didn't magically fix anything - it never had. The girl gripped her by the shoulders, and where she touched a grey coldness appeared and spread. "No! I didn't do it, it wasn't _me_ , it was _her_!" Hermione protested, finding it hard to speak.

" _She is you and you are she, and though you march on differently, all what has been will come to be, for threads may wander in the weave, but only tem-po-_ _ **ra-**_ _ri-ly…"_ she continued, in a maddening chirpy sing-song. The - whatever she was, _girl_ wasn't a meaningful label anymore... _wraith_? - laughed maniacally.

Hermione found herself slowly standing up against her own volition.  She could vaguely see the grey had spread across her entire body, but she couldn't turn her head to look - instead she moved to a shelf and withdrew a book. Her motions were natural, not mechanical, but she _couldn't change them_ , all she could do was _watch_ , as she sat down to read while the wraith capered about her in crazed delight.

She couldn't even see the words, the Library was so dark now, but her body continued turning the pages, once every twenty seconds, and no matter how natural and comforting the rhythm had seemed before, it felt like a hammer nailing shut her coffin.

Hermione screamed soundlessly, trapped in her own body, then started running through incantations, though it was no more helpful than the scream - even if she'd somehow done wandless magic earlier, this felt somehow more _real_ than that, and she wasn't even truly _speaking_.

_Alohomora, Finite Incantatem, Optundo Pulvinus…_

The wraith was moving about the Library, running her hands over everything. Grey spread in clouds from every touch, like milk into tea. Hermione didn't know _anything_ to fix this, but magic didn't have to make sense, and she clung to the litany as if it were a life preserver.

_...Wingardium Leviosa, Lumos, Colovaria…._

She started to _hear_ the thoughts of her grey Time-locked self, banal internal comments on the book Hermione couldn't even see, but it didn't matter because she'd _already read it_ , and when those thoughts grew loud enough she was sure she'd be buried beneath them and she'd be _lost_.

... _Tenere Altum, Praereptor Classicum, Echo Moratus…_

The wraith was at the window, just enough in Hermione's view to reveal that her back was missing, she was _hollow_ on the inside, literally papier-mâché, but glued with something dark and awful. Her arms were raised and the Library began to lighten somewhat as the grey spread out the windows, to the school grounds, even to the sky, but it wasn't a lightness that really  _illuminated_ , it was a lack of color, a lack of freedom, a lack of _meaning_. Hermione was being crushed by despair, she couldn't think anymore, but stubbornly continued, giving over to her subconscious to provide whatever it would.

... _Nati Sopo Álla...Iláp Iak Nuozíhcra...Aro Nit Onórehtfele..._

The wraith, in the midst of chaining the whole world in grey, suddenly whipped her head around, clock-eyes wide, and swooped towards Hermione, screeching in fury.

o-o-o

Hermione stared up at a cloudless blue sky. She was outside? But she'd been in the castle...doing...something… Feeling something smooth and slightly cool under her hand, she bent her neck forward and saw she was wearing a simple but lovely blue silk dress, her slippered feet peeking from under the hem. Part of the curve of the Black Lake was visible-

_Wait, what?_

She sat up abruptly and leaped off the table. She was back at the funeral, as were all the attendants, but they were grey, ghostly. Hermione rechecked her own appearance, and she seemed to be fine - for the current working definition of 'fine', at any rate.

She walked over to her parents, but didn't dare to touch them. It was all she could do to _look_ at them. She leaned close.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "If I get the chance, I'll try to...do better."

Hermione glanced back at her body on the table, clutching the book. This might be a dream, but it was _her_ dream, and seemed to have an internal logic. Maybe if she left _now_ , before the Headmaster 'cast' his 'spell'...

She tried it, and lo and behold, it worked. She hurried into the castle, which grew more and more white as she approached the Library. By the time she stepped through the doors, it was as bright as it had been, and she noted that again her dress had shifted into similarly white Hogwarts robes.

Again, Madam Pince was not here, but when Hermione checked behind her desk, her own book bag _was_. She reclaimed it, and withdrew her wand. It was stained with the murderer's blood, but there wasn't much she could do about that - you couldn't really point a wand at itself.

Hermione didn't say anything this time, simply navigated the same path through the white Library to the pair of chairs, where the woman sat reading. She stopped several paces away.

"What...what _are_ you?" Hermione asked, her voice unsteady. The woman didn't deign to respond, and Hermione tried again. "What kind of game is this?"

"It's not a game," said the woman after a moment, not bothering to look up. "Nor is it real - you're dreaming, even if you insist on behaving otherwise. But it's nevertheless how things _are_." There was, perhaps, a _hint_ of dissatisfaction in her tone, but mostly it held apathy.

"That's…not okay. I can't accept that." She shuddered. The woman shrugged indifferently.

"The Universe doesn't change based on your acceptance, or lack thereof," she noted, dryly.

"No...it changes based on our _actions_." Now the woman looked up, her eyes normal - the precise shade of Hermione's - but skeptical. "There has to be _something_ I can do?"

"There doesn't."

"You're lying.  I'll...I'll fight you anyway." The woman set her book down on the arm of her chair and shook her head.

"You wouldn't be fighting me. You wouldn't even be fighting _yourself_. You'd be fighting the _Universe_. Not just futile, but...in the entirely wrong context of action. It would be like challenging the Pythagorean Theorem to a fistfight."

"That's not _fair_ ," complained Hermione. The woman laughed, and it wasn't cruel, but was now faintly tinged with _despair_ , which cut almost worse.

"The Universe doesn't _really_ care about fairness, though it sometimes likes to _pretend_." She paused, and her look became considering. "Suppose, for the sake of argument, there _were_ something you could do. What would it look like?"

Hermione looked around the Library. Even against the slight glare of the ubiquitous white, she could see hints of grey, underneath everything, subtly chaining the world together, just waiting to bubble up and wash over the surface. Her expression became worried, but then softened - slowly - into wary thoughtfulness that mirrored the woman's.

"It would look _different_." This seemed like a truism, but it also seemed to capture the essence of her commitment. She trusted the woman would know what she meant.

There was an eternal moment of pause while they stared at each other, and Hermione felt like she was balancing on a needle's point.

The woman shrugged.

"By all means, _try_." Hermione's sense of tension vanished. She slumped in relief, then looked around, frowning.

Another moment went by, less eternal, but more awkward.

"Er." Hermione said. "How do I…" The woman sighed heavily and picked up the book to begin reading where she'd left off. She shook her head and spoke without lifting her eyes from the pages.

"You're a Ravenclaw now...I suppose you'll have to _work it out_."


	24. Interlude - Quod Sequitur

"Blimey, we've already  _told_  you lot everything we know. For the  _last time_  - Hermione said she thought Madam Pomfrey had been murdered, and she thought she knew how to catch who did it, using Scabbers and a Supersensory Charm and 'Deeanay', but she wanted to test it first in an old classroom. Then a quill she'd given us started going on in her voice about if we were hearing this there was an emergency and we should go find the closest Professor and bring them back straight away. Naturally we tried to see what was going on in the classroom, but the door wouldn't budge, so we ran off looking, but everyone was already on their way to dinner so it took  _ages_ , and by the time we finally caught up to Professor McGonagall,  _convinced_  her,  _and_ got back, Dumbledore had already been there and it was all over!

"Professor McGonagall gave us the third degree afterward, but she wouldn't say anything, and they won't let  _anyone_  see her in the hospital wing. But Nurse Wainscott is being  _fierce_  rather than  _sad_ , so she must be alive - whereas Scabbers is still missing, dead for all I know." Ron scowled irritably and took an unnecessarily vigorous bite of potatoes. Throughout his friend's recitation, Harry had nodded along in confirmation.

"If we'd only been faster somehow, we might've...I don't know,  _helped_ ," added Harry, looking pained.

"You're cracked, mate," opined Fred, cheerfully. George nodded.

"We couldn't get into the room, but we did get past the seal they put on that section of corridor," the other Twin added, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "Whatever happened there, it  _broke Hogwarts_  - have you any idea how  _hard_  that is? You're probably lucky you were nowhere near it."

"I heard a rumor from...someone...that she made some amazing secret Transfiguration discovery," gushed Lavender, whose mood had improved markedly just after arriving for dinner, when Professor McGonagall had unexpectedly pulled her aside, returned her wand, and gently admonished her to keep a closer eye on it. "And supposedly Professor McGonagall was still trying to decide if it was  _safe_...she probably tried to use it to do some sort of forbidden Muggle  _Deeanay_  thing and it exploded in her face!"

o-o-o

"Yes, but that's  _stupid_. What  _really_  happened?" demanded Kevin. Most of the other Ravenclaws at the first-year end of the table seemed similarly skeptical, though Morag appeared to be keeping an open mind about Hermione being a safety hazard.

"Well, it's  _Lavender_ ," noted Padma, not exactly disagreeing. "But I could tell Roger Davies knew something, so I asked him point-blank," she continued, in hushed tones. "He denied it at first, but eventually he gave in and admitted that he'd managed to sneak past the wards they put up around where  _it_  happened. He said there were signs it was some kind of spell duel - his theory is that Hermione was right about Madam Pomfrey being murdered, but whoever  _was_ responsible found out she was on his trail and ambushed her before she could find him, and she  _dueled_  him. They haven't confined us to our dorms though, so either he got away completely - which he couldn't, because the castle was still sealed - or she  _won_."

"Oh, Merlin  _save_  me," interjected Morag, "if ye want tae worship someone, go tae the chapel, Patil. I'll grant Granger might have some tricks, but it's  _obvious_  Dumbledore did the fighting, if there was any tae be done. Now can we just eat in  _peace_?"

o-o-o

"I will  _not_ ," hissed Pansy. "Don't you  _see_? Pomfrey and Granger are both mudbloods - the  _Chamber of Secrets_  must have been opened!" Draco opened his mouth to deliver some withering insult, but thought of a better idea and said something else entirely, his voice low but pitched to carry.

" _Hold your tongue_ , Parkinson.  _If_ one suspected the Heir of Slytherin  _had_ come to Hogwarts this year - and I'm not saying I have any knowledge of such a thing - and  _had_  opened the Chamber of Secrets...but had  _not_  announced himself openly, tell me, what does the  _true_  student of Salazar's house do?" He paused a beat for her expression to become trapped between stupidity and affront, then continued before she could retort. "He pays attention, and he waits -  _quietly -_ to see if the Heir requests his  _aid_."

Draco let himself show a quietly satisfied smile as Pansy scowled and some of the others around him began to look at him appraisingly. He wished he  _did_  know who'd apparently  _almost_  blown up the increasingly annoying mudblood, but other people thinking it might have been him was nearly as good. Plus, while he doubted the Heir was actually here - for starters, he wasn't sure Pomfrey  _had_ been a mudblood, he couldn't see how the Board of Governors would have allowed her to win the position if she had been - if he (or she, he allowed, reluctantly)  _was_  here, Draco's little speech should have made it clear he'd be happy to join forces, and also wasn't a complete idiot, unlike most.

Theodore Nott said nothing. Malfoy  _might_  have a real hand, but it was probably just bluff. Whereas  _he_  now had a very good idea what he was going to get out of the Granger girl with his leverage. Not  _just_  whatever Transfiguration secret she'd apparently stumbled across - which had been the strong contender until now - but also the  _truth_  of what had happened today. Though no one he'd talked to was sure how badly she'd been injured...it'd be damnable luck if she didn't  _live_  long enough for him to even get started on blackmailing her.

Tracey was only half-following the conversation. She didn't have remotely the status required to participate in a discussion of  _this_  level anyway, even if she did have something to contribute, which she didn't. The girl was distracted with her own conundrum, or maybe it was just a curiosity? She'd had a disquieting feeling all day, as if she was meant to be doing something  _really important_  but she somehow couldn't quite remember what it was. Forgetfulness was not a foreign sensation to Tracey by any means - she was an indifferent student at best, and despite sharing a dorm with girls completing the same assignments, they often managed to slip her mind. It was the feeling of  _importance_  that seemed out of place.

While we are near the topic of Ms. Davis' study habits - or more properly her lack thereof - a brief digression seems in order. It is worthy of note that if she  _had_  actually opened her History of Magic textbook recently, the scrap of parchment found within - with a note scrawled in a slightly neater version of her own handwriting - would, while not exactly  _explaining_  everything, have at the least given her a bit more to go on.

Alas, she had not, and remained vaguely uneasy - bereft of any support from students outside her House due to its unsavory reputation, and unwilling to ask for assistance from within due to its uncomfortable realities.

o-o-o

"All right, I think it's settled, then? As soon as they unseal the corridor, my group will move in and try to offer Mr. Filch a hand with the clean-up. If he actually agrees, remember to use spells only when absolutely necessary, and ask permission first, otherwise do it the way he wants. If he  _doesn't_  agree, we'll try to do what we can while he's not around - he's not likely to finish in less than a day on his own. Meanwhile, Parvati will check with her sister to find out if she knows what sort of things Hermione likes that might cheer her up - it's early in the year, so we might have to do a small collection to bulk up the Benevolence Fund first if it ends up being a book we need to owl-order. Neville's got plenty of experience by now, so after dinner his team will break into smaller groups and help search for Ron's rat, while as a backup Sally-Anne's group looks into maybe finding a replacement pet for him - anonymously, if you can manage it, but  _coordinate_  for Merlin's sake, we don't want him buried in animals. Sound good to everyone?"

A chorus of smiling, enthusiastic nods and other affirmatives greeted Cedric's efficient summation, and the group of early-year Hufflepuffs set about eating.

o-o-o

"Albus," Minerva murmured, when she could no longer stand the deliberately casual dinner conversation that had occupied them since finally making it to the Great Hall, "what are you going to  _say_?"

"You know I prefer not to plan these things too closely, Minerva," Dumbledore replied affably. "I think nothing tonight, though. It will depend somewhat on what we can glean from Miss Granger, when she - hopefully soon - regains consciousness, and Hogwarts does relish a good rumour. In any event, I'm sure something appropriate will come to mind when the moment is at hand." He smiled beatifically as he bit into a sausage. Not for the first - or, she feared, the last - time, Minerva reconsidered a great many of her life choices, and wondered if the weather in Australia was really as nice as everyone said...

On the Headmaster's opposite side, Severus Snape said nothing, which in his own opinion, was developing into a troubling trend. After this latest development, he genuinely could not tell if he was simply being stupid, being successfully manipulated, slowly going mad, or, quite possibly, all three. It  _had_ been whispered that the Dark Lord had, on rare occasions,  _toyed_  with the sanity of those who had betrayed him, rather than destroying them outright…

Further down the table, Filius Flitwick absently cut his sausages into increasingly microscopic pieces, his eyes distant. After a fair amount of shameless kibitzing, Madam Wainscott had summarily ordered everyone out of the infirmary - otherwise he'd still be there, watching over one of his newest students. He'd somehow managed to fall short as her Head of House after less than a week of classes, but he was determined to remedy that. Now that it was  _abundantly_ apparent she had latent Gryffindor tendencies, he'd just have to make a point of checking in with her more regularly, having her run any plans and insights past him so he could point out any that didn't seem entirely sane.

At the far end, Quirinus Quirrell was nearly as quiet as the Charms and Potions Professors, excepting occasional stuttered apologies as he "nervously" spilled soup or knocked over a salt cellar, but these small touches were automatic now, leaving him alone with his thoughts. It was a pity the valuable distraction afforded by the hunt for the murderer had ended so soon - he hadn't learned nearly enough about the Stone's protections to dare an attempt yet. Equally disappointing that the murderer's identity hadn't been discovered until it was too late to make any use of him without risking exposure. But this new development  _had_  suggested some interesting options…

o-o-o

A large but rather gaunt and mistreated dog, hearing someone approach the door of the cell he was unhappily occupying, hurriedly shifted his form to that of a similarly gaunt and mistreated human. He hunched and shivered slightly under the renewed oppression of the Dementors' influence on the human aspect of his psyche.

After the DMLE official, flanked by three grizzled Aurors, spoke to him, he had to ask the woman - who wore a guarded but awkward expression - to repeat herself twice. The repetition was necessary, for his weary and abused mind refused at first to accept what she was saying as something that was  _conceivable_ , let alone something that had  _actually happened_.

It wasn't  _entirely_  a happy thought - the vengeance he'd been sustaining himself on all these years had, after all, apparently been stolen from him - but nevertheless the notion of someone  _else_  getting Peter had not once formed while he'd suffered in this place. For a moment he considered asking to be left here until Pettigrew arrived, so he could "welcome" him, but he hadn't actually gone insane. Or not  _quite_. He laughed, but there was no mirth in it.

o-o-o

In the hospital wing, Pauline Wainscott sat at a worktable, trying to concentrate on her non-emergency duties. It had been a rather tense few minutes - at one point she  _had_  actually been forced to curtly evict the various well-meaning but  _not_  Mediwitch-trained Professors who clearly didn't  _really_  think she was entirely up to snuff, despite Dumbledore's faith in her. But in the end, she'd been able to manage the worst of her patient's shocking injuries and stabilize her for the moment. Still, she'd need rest and replenishment before her system could withstand further healing magic without risking a permanent depletion of her body's capacity for recovery. There was little enough to be done now but wait, but she kept  _imagining_  she'd heard one of the separate alarm spells she had set to watch over the girl's heart rate, blood pressure, brain activity, and general life force.

But no, there it was again - not one of her alarms, but a soft sound from the girl. She must be talking in her sleep, which was actually an encouraging sign. Pauline moved over to her bed.

"... _nestly_...enigmatic... _rude_." The girl's eyes fluttered open and she startled, half sitting up, then winced at the pain the sharp movement had no doubt produced.

"Easy, Miss Granger," the Healer said, easing her back down to the bed with gentle support on her shoulder and back. "You are safe, but you mustn't strain yourself." For a moment the girl looked relieved, but then her eyes narrowed.

"Madam Wainscott. I trust you used sufficient...ah... _french toast and syrup_  on my wounds?" she asked, casually. Pauline cautiously revoked her own earlier sense of relief.

"Er...no…" she corrected, gently. "Some Blood-Slowing Charms, a Bone-Setter, and a Critical Restoration Spell...you'll need some more care, and a great deal of food, but you should be out of  _physical_  danger…" Now the girl's face relaxed, and she let herself sink back into the pillow.

"Good," she murmured. "Probably not dreaming. The  _pain_  was evidence, but still worth testing…" She closed her eyes, and for a moment Pauline thought she'd fallen back to sleep, but then her eyes opened again.

"Oh. Was there a rat by me, when I was found...or…"

"I don't think so, the Professors were saying something about a  _man_  who'd been hexed, but they didn't really explain, just that you'd been near or in a magical combat. You haven't shown any signs of latent curses, though if you can describe what hit you, it could help a great deal?" Again, the girl looked relieved.

"So a Full Body-Bind  _does_  block an Animagus transformation...that would've made things a  _lot_  easier, had I known...should've just asked Professor McGonagall without context," she said with a deep frown, apparently to herself. Then she seemed to realize she'd been asked a question. "Oh...spells, yes, of course you'd need to know. Let's see, a Disarming Charm, a Cruciatus Curse, a Full Body-Bind, a…well, I suppose a  _failed_  Memory Charm, then some sort of  _artillery_  spell that goes 'Bombarda Maxima' - though it didn't hit me directly - and another Disarming Charm. Oh, and a Stunning Spell and a Killing Curse hit a wall within a metre of me, but as far as I've read they don't have proximity-based side-effects, not that what I've read on the Unforgivable Curses was terribly detailed…" Pauline covered her gaping mouth with one hand as she belatedly processed everything her patient had been afflicted with - besides the Bombardment Curse that explained  _most_ of her injuries, if not how she'd survived it.

" _Merlin's Beard,_ " she gasped, and bolted to the supplies cabinet. She pulled two bottles and quickly but carefully poured a splash from each into an empty flask, swirled it, then rushed back to the girl's bed and brought it to her lips, holding it carefully so she could drink. But she turned her face to the side, avoiding the remedy.

"I can't sleep yet, if that's what-"

"It's not a sleeping draught, just a muscle relaxant, and something to promote nerve healing - both herbological, not proper potions, but you  _must_  take them as soon as possible, if I'd known a Cruciatus was involved I'd have risked waking you sooner, it never occurred to me someone might be so vile as to cast  _that_  on a  _child_... _please_  drink it…" The girl's eyes widened as she recognized Pauline's urgency, and she turned back, allowing the Healer to tip the liquid into her mouth. She made a face at the bitter flavour, but swallowed.

"I'm sorry," the first-year said, sounding genuinely contrite. "It's just, I have to speak to the Headmaster, that man I hexed is a fairly convincing liar, he's apparently decent at potions so he might have Veritaserum antidote, and I don't know what he's been  _telling_  them... How long was I out for?" The young woman blinked for a moment at this explanation, then glanced at her watch.

"Less than an hour. And the Headmaster  _asked_  to be notified immediately if you woke. But please, try to remain calm? Your system is very fragile right now - there are limits to how much stress the body can safely absorb, and Healing is no exception."

"I'll try. I don't think I have the energy to do otherwise, to be honest." Lines of pain in the girl's face smoothed as the concoction began to blunt the after-effects of the Cruciatus, as well as her body's other insults. Pauline withdrew her wand from its dedicated pocket in her apron.

Even when she'd  _finally_  managed to produce the spell in Defence, Professor Harbuckle had complained that she wasn't doing it properly, since she didn't use a  _memory_ , but an  _idea_ , and it wasn't even - in the Professor's opinion - a  _realistic_  idea. But it was the only thing that had ever worked for her, and it  _did_  work, so Pauline firmly imagined the world as it  _should_  be, every person free of disease, of injury, of infirmity, of pain, a world of perfect health, convinced herself - despite all evidence - that it  _would_  happen someday, and  _she_  would see it.

" _Expecto Patronum!_ " A shining silver salamander burst from her wand, skittering across the air before her, and as usual, she couldn't help smiling at it. She hadn't tried to cast it since...since  _it_  happened, and under its soothing light, she now wished she'd been brave enough to try earlier. "Please inform Professor Dumbledore that Hermione Granger is awake and that he can talk to her... _briefly_." The salamander vanished in a puff of silver flame.

She'd added the trailing admonition on impulse. It was all well and good to know that in  _this_  room of the castle, even the Headmaster could not override a Healer's instructions, but she imagined it would be quite another to try to order around  _Albus Dumbledore_  to his  _face_  - he hadn't been present with the staff she'd gathered the temerity to evict earlier. But she knew Madam Pomfrey had been able to do it, somehow, even with  _him_...she'd just have to live up to her example, should the need arise. Pauline turned back to her patient, and saw that she was propping herself up on her elbows, her eyes shining.

"While we're waiting, if you don't think it would be overly taxing for me just to watch and listen, I would like  _very much_  if you could explain the details of the spell you just cast?"

"Really, you should just be resting. I wouldn't even want you to be talking to the Headmaster if he hadn't insisted it was a matter of school safety," Pauline explained patiently.  _Ravenclaws,_  she thought.

"It's just that," the girl persisted, "a spell to send messages seems like something  _everyone_  should be taught. And it...felt?...like it was a broad variant of a Cheering Charm, which would make it even more useful in, you know,  _dire_  situations…"

Oh, so  _that_  was the problem.

"I know you've had a bad turn, and I can't imagine how frightening all this must've been for you, but really, you're  _safe_  now. Hogwarts is really very safe as a  _rule_ , nothing like this has happened in ages. It's best to trust the Professors to handle such things and just concentrate on your studies."

"Learning magic  _is_  part of my studies," the girl pointed out. "And while I'm sure you're right - I know logically it's wrong to extrapolate the rest of my time at Hogwarts based on one unlikely event - but  _emotionally_  I'd feel  _much_  better if I knew a way to directly call for help if, say, someone  _was_  trying to kill me. Again." Even in her apparent vehemence the first-year looked a bit uncertain, as if doubting the quality of her own argument, and Pauline soldiered on.

"I couldn't possibly...even if we skipped over it being a fifth-year spell, it took me ages to learn and I don't do it entirely right, and I'm  _not a Professor_ ," insisted Madam Wainscott. "When you're well, you can ask Professor Quirrell. Now I  _must_  ask that you lie back and rest, you can't afford to get agitated right now."

"I'm not  _agitated_ , I'm just-" the girl paused and took a breath. "All right, maybe I  _was_  a bit agitated." She lowered herself to the pillow again, then frowned. "Wait. It's a Defence spell? I mean, Defence class is already a bit haphazard about what it includes, and effective communication  _is_  a good form of defence, but…"

"Well, yes. But sending messages with it is actually something the Headmaster showed me how to do when I came on here. Properly, it's only meant as a defence against Lethifolds and Dementors." Pauline shuddered, and the girl's frown deepened.

"I've seen a reference to Lethifolds, and from context I inferred they were pretty nasty. But I thought Dementors were the guards at Azkaban, that it was a profession, like Auror, or Unspeakable?"

"Oh heavens no," breathed Pauline. "That is, yes, they're tasked with guarding Azkaban, but they're about the Darkest creature we know of, including actual Dark wizards." Her patient lapsed into thoughtfulness. "Anyway, I should let you rest until the Headmaster-"

"What exactly do Dementors do...that makes such a Dark creature appropriate prison guards?" the girl interrupted, in a very quiet voice. Pauline remembered that the girl was muggleborn - she was probably quite wrongly but  _understandably_  worried about the man who'd cursed her, that he might somehow escape. Ordinarily describing such a thing to a young child wasn't something she'd even consider, let alone one who was already recovering from an ordeal. But in this unique case, if it might  _comfort_  her to know how perfect a prison Azkaban was…

She explained what Dementors were.

o-o-o

After Madam Wainscott's Patronus appeared at his shoulder and delivered its message, Albus excused himself from the Head Table and quickly made his way towards the hospital wing.

The dreadful tale that Mr. Pettigrew had told, under the influence of Veritaserum, was fantastical to say the least. That he could have been so misjudged by everyone, and so successfully framed Sirius Black for the Potters' betrayal seemed as shocking and unlikely as Sirius' apparent betrayal had been in the first place. But not  _quite_. Not enough that - unlike then - he wouldn't  _thoroughly_  verify the facts of the matter. His account of the murder of Poppy Pomfrey  _did_  seem to match what little they knew, though. Pettigrew was already in the hands of the DMLE, Alastor had taken him personally, and was going to watch him unblinkingly - a half-literal expression, in the grizzled Auror's case - for a full day to ensure any hypothetical Veritaserum Antidote would have become ineffective, then dose him and question him  _again_.

Alastor had immediately raised the possibility that the confession was false and part of some deeper plot to get Sirius Black released from Azkaban...there was nothing to say they couldn't  _both_  have been traitors, and one turned on the other when Voldemort fell, or that Voldemort was playing some  _very_  long game with the once-friends. But against the mere possibility an innocent man had spent a decade in Azkaban, Albus had lobbied heavily for Black to be taken into temporary protective custody  _outside_  the prison as a possible witness. Guarded at all times by a minimum of three veteran Aurors, of course, just in case. Nevertheless, Albus had already begun to marinate in a new mix of guilt and regret. Things had been so hectic right after Tom's 'miscalculation'...in some ways worse, as Death Eaters lashed out without leadership or aim. He'd  _known_  that Bartemius was cutting corners, sometimes forgoing trials altogether. And on some level, he hadn't  _wanted_  to hear Sirius explain why he'd betrayed their cause, his best friend, and his own godson. He'd never understood the lust for power, for  _dominance_ , that other Death Eaters had espoused, and to hear it from the lips of someone he'd trusted - again - wasn't something he was eager to experience.

But mostly, he'd simply been  _busy_.

Just as now, when he'd been so busy with his delicate plans to try to contain Voldemort - to end Tom's sad story with the minimum of suffering to all involved - that he'd miscalculated, presumed Poppy's death was Riddle showing his hand, and moved to trap him in the castle with the eleven-year-old boy who was apparently the sole being with any hope of destroying him. Even while knowing that the Prophecy  _constrained_  Time but did not  _choose_  which of them would fall to the other. But despite his careful scrutiny, an Animagus transformation had been sufficient to evade his notice, and another student had nearly died because of his own blindness.

Still, if Peter's confessions  _were_ accurate, they would shortly have Tom's wand, and would have deprived him of his strongest tool and most secret ally in a single stroke. A stroke delivered not by himself, or Severus, or even a certain first-year Gryffindor, but rather a first-year Ravenclaw muggleborn. To say it was unexpected was putting it mildly. And yet...

Severus had, only yesterday, asked him if he knew anything of note about Hermione Granger. Which, aside from Minerva giving her closer Transfiguration supervision, he had not. But the Potions Master had said nothing further, which suggested he was suspicious about something but had not yet become certain enough to say. He  _had_  asked similar questions about a few other students and half the staff besides. As loyal as he judged Severus now to be, he was Slytherin to his bones, and the man would not risk tarnishing his self-image by sharing unfounded supposition that might turn out to be baseless. Of course beyond that, on a much deeper level, he had once been taught a harsh lesson indeed about sharing incomplete information.

When their prisoner had given his unwilling account of his encounter with Miss Granger, Alastor had predictably noted certain inconsistencies in the story, the failed Memory Charm, the weak Body-Bind - though the rest was plausible, if barely, as the actions of a particularly precocious first-year - and suggested immediately performing an impractical number of strenuous examinations of the girl that might've been life-threatening even if she  _wasn't_  recovering from serious injuries. Under normal circumstances, Severus ought to have made some dryly cutting remarks - his natural skepticism and scorn was an excellent check to Alastor's increasingly rampant paranoia - but he had again, said nothing. Perhaps it was worth pressing him on the matter, but he'd decide after speaking to the girl and forming his own opinions - and he had forbid any interrogations until after that point.

The old wizard paused a few spans from the hospital wing doors as he came upon a third-year Ravenclaw loitering in the corridor.

"Mr. Davies," he greeted him, curiously.

"Professor," returned the boy, in a respectful but cautious tone.

"I understand that Madam Wainscott has cleared the hospital wing, but if you have an actual medical need, you needn't wait outside…"

"Oh, no, sir. I just wanted to be here for Hermione, if she...I mean...I feel a little responsible." Albus raised an eyebrow, and the boy wilted a bit. "I...after Madam Pomfrey, I was just  _sure_  she wouldn't make a mistake like that, and some of the lower-years talked about alternative explanations. She just took it very seriously, she was really investigating, and I encouraged her. Is it true, Madam Pomfrey  _was_  murdered, and Hermione caught him?"

"What truly happened is still a matter of some debate, though I commend you - your loyalty and faith in Madam Pomfrey's professionalism is well-founded. As for your responsibility in the matter...did you know your Housemate was planning to confront a suspected murderer herself?" The boy shook his head.

"Merlin, no, I'd have told her to go to Professor Flitwick or yourself straight away." Albus nodded.

"And are you taking Divination this year?" Davies blinked at the non-sequitur, then again shook his head.

"No, sir. Arithmancy, Ancient Runes and Care of Magical Creatures."

"Well. If you  _had_  somehow been capable of reliably predicting  _today's_  events in advance, I dare say I would be justified in making you a co-Professor along with Professor Trelawney. As it is, I think you deserve no blame." The boy nodded, though he seemed unsatisfied with this absolution. "You still have a few minutes to get some dinner. I will ask Madam Wainscott to see that you are informed when Miss Granger is fit to receive visitors."

"Thank you, Headmaster," he said after a moment's hesitation, then headed off at a brisk walk. Albus had nearly reached the hospital wing entrance when he was brought up short again.

" _-serious?!_ " The high-pitched shout had been audible even through the closed doors to the hospital wing. Raising an eyebrow, he entered and quietly closed the door behind him, adding a Sound-proofing Spell to them with a gesture. For the moment, he was unnoticed by the other occupants of the room.

The only patient was a small girl, struggling to support her sitting position with one hand as the other was occupied in violently shaking a finger at Madam Wainscott. The girl's face was red and her untamed brown hair danced in a mad cloud around her head, while the Healer frantically tried to calm her patient. A two-chime pattern was insistently repeating above the girl's bed, but it was largely drowned out by her continued shouting.

"Do you even  _realize_  how  _insane_  that is? There are dozens of laws,  _hundreds_ , that carry  _mandatory_  sentences in Azkaban, a lot not even for violent crimes - not that that would be an excuse anyway! For short sentences, you're just making them  _worse people_  when they get out than when they went in! For long ones, it's basically execution by  _extended torture_. And then if  _that_  somehow isn't  _bad enough_ , if someone  _justifiably_  escapes, you can whistle up one of these  _things_  to  _EAT their SOUL_  - whatever that  _actually_  means?! Here I'd thought  _normal_  prisons were shamefully mismanaged, but apparently magic  _is_  better at everything, and you've managed to leapfrog them straight to  _concentration camps_  guarded by  _literal demons!_ "

" _Please,_  Miss Granger, you  _must_  calm down, you'll do yourself  _permanent harm_ ," begged Madam Wainscott, trying with only partial success to press the girl back down to the bed.

"Calm _down?_ " Her expression was disbelieving. "The Ministry is  _evil_.  _Wizards_  are  _evil._  You can't just  _give_  people to things like that and  _not_  be evil, no matter what they've done, no matter  _how_ you rationalize it."

"You are not entirely wrong, Miss Granger," Albus said, mildly. The room fell silent as the remark settled heavily over everyone present. For her part, the Healer looked both aghast and relieved. The girl, meanwhile, was undergoing what he'd come to think of as Standard Reaction Number Two to meeting him in person for the first time, which involved a fair amount of stammering and avoiding eye contact. To her credit, her indignation was rapidly spurring her past that stage, though she seemed somewhat at a loss as to how to continue, opening and closing her mouth without managing to produce any words. "Pauline?" he asked, turning to the Healer.

"I-I'm sorry Headmaster, she asked about Dementors and I thought it would  _help_ , knowing how secure Azkaban was, that her attacker would never escape…" The girl on the bed made a brief choking noise.

"It would seem not, though it was an understandable notion under the circumstances. I presume by your resort to, ah,  _physical persuasion_  that employing additional spells or potions upon Miss Granger is contraindicated?" The girl had let herself fall back into the bed, but the Healer's hand was still on her shoulder - she hastily withdrew it while nodding emphatically.

"Yes, Headmaster, emergency use only...though she was nearly to the point that a Slumber Charm would've been worth the risk," she confirmed, casting a stern glance at her patient. It was lost upon the girl, however, who had closed her eyes and seemed to be deliberately taking a series of deep breaths, which had in turn quieted the monitoring charms.

"I will make an effort not to tire Miss Granger needlessly, but I  _do_  need to speak with her. Privately, I'm afraid." At the Healer's conflicted expression, he raised a palm in a conciliatory gesture. "I don't intend to move her, nor to ask you to leave your patient...I will use an ambient privacy charm, but make specific exclusions for your monitoring spells. Is that acceptable?" Pauline nodded.

"I suppose. But please, Headmaster, sir - I've given her what aid I can for the moment, but the assaults upon her included a Cruciatus Curse among other things -  _do_  try to make it short and avoid upsetting her...further...?" Albus' eyebrows rose, but he nodded. The young woman moved to a worktable and made a pretense of useful labor while she kept the bed constantly in her peripheral vision. Albus moved to the girl's bed and sat upon a stool beside it, conjured with a lazy wave of his hand.

He withdrew a wand of terrible power - the wizard made it a rule to remind himself of that every time he touched it - and turned it gently in a horizontal circle. The quiet sounds of the room around the bed faded away, and the room itself was obscured by a grey haze, until they seemed to be resting inside an opaque and sound-proof egg, which they were.

By this time the girl had finished her deep-breathing exercises and opened her eyes, though after a quick glance around, she seemed to be considering resuming them.

"You have nothing to fear from me, Miss Granger," he noted.

"I'm sorry, Headmaster. It's just...I'm having some anxiety-management issues, here." Her eyes seemed to be more calm, though still betraying a tumult of emotions beneath.

"I quite understand, Miss Granger. And please, the honorific is not necessary - Professor is sufficient, and preferred, if referring to me so would not cause you discomfort." She gave him a queer look.

"Alright. Professor. I...ugh. False urgency, right. Putting aside Azkaban,  _for the moment_. The man who was found paralyzed near me - assuming he was a short, stocky, pointy-nosed, rat Animagus - admitted to me that he murdered Madam Pomfrey and made it look like an accident. I don't know what he's been telling you, but-" Albus raised a palm.

"The individual in question, one Peter Pettigrew, is indeed in custody, and has under Veritaserum divulged the details of that despicable act...among others. Your efforts in exposing him, while perhaps ill-advised, are much appreciated. Though there do remain a considerable number of questions about the affair…if you would care to relate events from your perspective, I hope it will clear matters up significantly?" The girl, who had visibly relaxed when he'd confirmed Pettigrew's status, now tensed and broke eye contact, rather too quickly for it to be simple reticence or shyness. Interesting.

"I'm sorry I didn't take it up with a Professor, sir. I know what I did was reckless and stupid. I did ask Professor Quirrell for hypothetical tactical advice, and I actually  _tried_  to talk to you about it at one point, but I didn't know how to get into your office, and then I talked myself out of it. It was just...the 'Seer's Hex' thing...I was sure no one would  _believe_  me without actual evidence - or worse, send me to St. Mungo's - and I didn't have any until I confronted him." Albus nodded.

"For future reference, any Professor can arrange a meeting with me, with sufficient reason, though typically students would do so through their Head of House. But in the interests of avoiding any similar missed opportunities for collaboration, the password to my office this year is 'chocolate frog'. I trust that you will keep this to yourself, and not abuse the privilege?" He gave her an amused smile as she nodded mutely. "As for your concerns about staff giving credence to your suspicions...I agree, it was an unfortunate situation. But I would urge you to make every effort to give us the benefit of the doubt, in the future?" The Ravenclaw looked conflicted.

"I...I would  _like_  to, Professor, but...you  _knew_ , didn't you? That it was murder? And you sealed him in with us. And then there's Azkaban, and house elves, for that matter. I'd been assuming everything in magical Britain was pretty much the same, deep down, only plus magic, but now it seems like there are some pretty serious ethical differences. And you  _admitted_  it was evil. I'm…" she swallowed heavily. Albus carefully considered his words.

"Wizards are not angels, Miss Granger, any more than muggles are. There is the capacity for great evil in us, as well as great good, and among any sufficiently large number of people you will find examples of both, with most falling somewhere between. I will note that things are not always as they appear, though in the case of Azkaban, I cannot truly claim otherwise. But do not mistake the  _presence_  of evil for  _surrender_ to it. Many people, myself included, actively oppose the Ministry's use of Dementors, but we do not yet outnumber the influence of those who support it. Regrettably, the average wizard is more concerned with what happens to those he feels to be like himself than...convicted criminals hundreds of miles away, who in his mind, knew what they risked when they broke the law. Can you truly say things are different among muggles?"

"I think the United Kingdom outlawed capital punishment twenty years ago, and we haven't tortured people for rather longer than that," the girl noted, pointedly. Albus nodded.

"And so we are quite behind the times, shamefully in this case. Perhaps you are right, that as a whole, wizards might make decisions that - given your upbringing - you would not expect, or support. But with rare exception, individually, Hogwarts' Professors are intelligent people of high character. If you perceive an injustice, or a wrong - and share it - we  _will_  give your concerns a fair hearing." The young girl's frown did not lighten, but she nodded.

"And locking a murderer in a boarding school with a bunch of children?" she asked. Albus had been hoping in his initial concession that she would not have noticed he hadn't addressed that part.

"Though I believe I had good reasons to act as I did, at this point I am regrettably not at liberty to explain them fully to you without ostensibly putting a great many people in even worse jeopardy. I will say that the protections for Hogwarts students are quite numerous, and many are exceedingly subtle - it was not as great a risk as you might imagine. But nevertheless, there  _was_  danger, and I deeply regret both the necessity, and the suffering it brought you."

"That's...I appreciate that, or I'm trying to, but that's...really not good enough?" The girl was trying to maintain a stern front, but the rise in her voice's pitch betrayed her uncertainty.

"Miss Granger, I fear you are experiencing a severe instance of what I believe muggles call 'culture shock'. The flexibility and power of magic supports a society in which certain levels of risk, that muggles might reasonably consider completely unacceptable, are simply everyday encounters. As I have said, it is not perfect by any means. But it is true to itself. Your impulse may be to withdraw from it, to give up your studies and live as a muggle. Or depending on what your parents learn of these events, they may attempt to withdraw you and prohibit you from returning. It has happened before. But magical Britain  _needs_  more people such as yourself, who can look at a criminal, or a house elf, and still see a feeling being, worthy of basic decency. People who can drag us by our broomsticks towards the fast-approaching third millennium. People who, even when they feel there is no authority they may turn to, will  _still_  try to do what is right, even at great personal risk." He could see from her face that she wasn't comfortable either with the implied compliments or the parallel he'd drawn.

"I just wanted to go to  _school_ ," she said, after a moment. "It's all I've ever wanted. The past few years, I almost always had already read what the teachers were teaching, but there were still always things I could learn, and I can't help reading ahead, so I can  _understand_. And magic...it's a whole new world,  _literally_. But all these... _important_  things...I just...I don't know if I can handle it." The Headmaster smiled kindly and patted her hand.

"An obvious mark of quality is  _rising to the occasion_ , when necessary. But there is no rush, young lady! You likely have a full century of life ahead of you, at least, and while you show great promise, you do not yet bear responsibility for the world's troubles. Ample time to learn, and later, when you've gained wisdom to match your knowledge, to  _act_." This little bit of inspiration didn't seem to land well, as the girl's expression took on a sickly cast, and it seemed like she might begin to cry. But before he could begin to correct the matter, she shook her head sharply, then met his gaze evenly.

"I...have to tell you some things. Not  _just_  the murderer, but a lot more than that. I don't know if it's the right thing to do, but I  _can't_  say nothing." She hesitated and her eyes took on a haunted cast that no young child's should, but that he'd nevertheless seen more times than he cared to remember.

"'Help will always be given at Hogwarts, to those who ask for it'," he noted gently, quoting one of the Founders. The girl nodded.

"I hope so. There...might not be as much time as you think. But it would be silly not to at least ask first." She paused, gathering her thoughts. "Suppose I -  _believed_  - that Time had been changed, somehow, and I was...will be?...partially responsible. Would it be safe...or advisable, for me to tell you the details? If it lends any credence, I'm clear of the Conditional Obscuration on the relevant laws." Albus' eyebrows climbed skyward.

"Given  _that_  preface...I think you must, Miss Granger. If I decide it is knowledge I Ought Not to Know, I'm confident I can restore my own ignorance, and yours - if necessary, and if you consented, of course." The first-year stared at him for a moment, several emotions dueling for dominance on her face, though surprise was only faintly represented.

"I suppose if  _any_  Obliviation is ethically acceptable, a self-imposed one would qualify. But honestly, wizards seem far more free with that than they really ought to be." She shook her head and took a deep breath. "All right. I suppose it all started - in objective chronology if not my own episodic sort - during my first trip to Diagon Alley, with a book..."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I live! Apologies for the epic-length posting hiatus, you know how these things are. I do have one short chapter ready after this one, and then we'll *see* if I can get back on a regular posting schedule, but no guarantees other than yes, I will continue the story to its natural end, however long that takes.
> 
> Thanks to /u/HermioneGPEV for pointing out a confusing offset qualifier in Ch. 18!


	25. Disclosure

Hermione finally finished her tale and fell silent, waiting for the Headmaster to respond. As he seemed in no hurry to do so, she took a moment to examine her own condition. Physically, she  _did_  feel much better. Between whatever the Nurse had done before she'd woken up and the tonic she'd given her after learning about the Cruciatus...it no longer caused agony to breathe deeply, or move her right arm...and her hearing seemed fine. Although she did still get a bit dizzy if she turned her head too quickly, and she was terribly weary - everything seemed to take five times more effort than normal. All in all, it was only slightly worse than that one year she'd put forth a desperate effort to accomplish  _something_  on Sports Day and ended up in the nurse's office for heat exhaustion.

At the time, it had been guilt, she recalled - that, even if they were nice about it (which, typically, they were not), whatever team was saddled with her presence was inevitably dragged down. Hermione frowned, reminded of the dreams she'd had. She couldn't remember all of them - her otherwise splendid memory rarely worked as well on dreams - but they'd been unpleasant enough that certain bits were sticking with her. She suspected they might have played a part in prompting her to finally share everything with Professor Dumbledore.

While she'd had uniformly bad results from bringing infractions of other students to the attention of teachers in previous schools, the Headmaster had made a decent point, that she should try to give the Staff here the benefit of the doubt - her prior experiences could've been the result of individual failings the Hogwarts Professors did not share, or perhaps the cultures were different enough for teachers here to have avoided some systemic problem in non-magical schools. Still, she'd had to  _force_  herself  _not_  to leave out the bits about Mr. Odious and Tracey Davis - it felt a bit like avoiding responsibility, which was anathema to her. But upon consideration she'd decided her reluctance was 'storybook logic' - a contradiction in terms - heroes in stories tended not to ask for help not generally because it was  _wise_ , but because if they did, much more capable people might actually solve the problems for them, and then what would there be for the hero to do?

Whereas it felt abundantly clear to Hermione that someone who  _actually_  cared about problems should  _not_  care who got the credit, only that they got solved as quickly and efficiently as possible; that conclusion was only reinforced as she felt a weight of responsibility lift when she'd finished relating everything. Just as the Professor had said, her responsibility was to  _learn_. Let experienced adult witches and wizards deal with Dark Lords and Time and even petty blackmail attempts.

Though she still felt she should address Azkaban  _somehow_. Perhaps it was a matter of lack of public awareness - a good proportion of magical society were born to non-magical parents, maybe the details had been glossed over? Or it was just the sort of thing not discussed in polite company? It seemed telling that the details of Dementors' use at Azkaban weren't well documented in the books she'd had access to, that even people who supported the status quo knew on some level it was not something to proudly display. To the point that from her reading Hermione had presumed they were yet another fancy magical title, rather than Dark creatures. Maybe she could distribute a survey on public awareness. Or write a letter to the Daily Prophet...

"Thank you for recounting your rather astounding experiences, Miss Granger - your candor and attention to detail is commendable," the Headmaster finally said, emerging from his quiet contemplation. "I shall have to give these matters a great deal of thought, and further investigation as well." Hermione nodded.

"Is there anything I should do - or not do - in the meantime?" He considered this.

"With respect to Time, I feel you should try to act much as you might have if you'd remained unaware of such magics, or of any of the events revealed to you that may - or may not - yet come to pass. I admit that such things are still poorly understood, and if there  _are_  to be...deeper consequences from what has occurred, I hope through my own investigations to glean at least some measure of warning and will act as necessary." The young Ravenclaw frowned at this, but nodded. It wasn't as if there was much alternative. It  _was_  against the law to talk about it, after all.

"As for Mr. Nott," he continued, "I am afraid that given the specific details of the situation, he has - technically - not yet broken any school rules. Further, his father is on the Board of Governors, and without firm evidence such an accusation could cause complications." Hermione thought this was a rather narrow reading, but not entirely wrong - she  _had_  "given" the notes away, and whoever found them was under no strict obligation to follow her instructions. "Further, for me to act precipitously might actually put you in greater danger, by lending credence to the information in your notes. If he does make an explicit demand - and I assure you that blackmail  _is_  against school rules - you should, again, act as you would have if I were not already aware of the situation. Going to your Head of House would not be amiss, for instance. Whereas I will take certain steps to make wider disclosure of the notes exceedingly difficult, regardless of Mr. Nott's intentions." Hermione wondered how he'd manage that - presumably with magic, but the implications were somewhat troubling. Still, she didn't ask for elaboration, as it sounded like he thought it better she did not know. "Whereas if you should happen to notice anything newly concerning about Miss Davis' behavior, please bring it directly to my attention - but for now it is my hope that with any luck, she has avoided difficulties similar to your own.

"There is one last thing that must be discussed. You do not need to make a decision immediately, but it would help if I knew how you wished to proceed before, say, tomorrow evening." Hermione raised an eyebrow. "The, ah,  _scope_  of your activities today was somewhat extreme for a student, even by magical standards. As I mentioned, there is a distinct possibility that if your parents become aware of these events, they will attempt to withdraw you from Hogwarts, out of concern for your safety."

"When you say ' _if_ ', and ' _attempt_ '..." Hermione began, her brow furrowing. The Headmaster held up a hand.

"I do not mean to say they do not have the right to do so, or imply they would not be successful, at least in the long run. But given your Sorting, I fear that you would not be satisfied to abandon the study of magic indefinitely, whereas parents of muggle-borns who take steps such as these rarely engage private tutors that would allow you to continue to study  _safely_. Such services are both expensive, and still arguably  _less_  safe than Hogwarts itself, even considering recent events."

"So...what decision do you mean?" Hermione asked, slowly. Professor Dumbledore paused, clearly choosing his words.

"It is part of Hogwarts standards of educational independence that specific details of events within are...not routinely distributed to parents in a formal manner. Most learn some fraction of what goes on here via their children. You may find it more prudent simply not to inform yours of the full story." All of Hermione's doubts about the Headmaster's judgement came flooding back in a rush.

"Professor Dumbledore...you are telling me to  _lie_  to my  _parents_?" The wizard lowered his nose and peered at her over his glasses for a moment.

"I understand your reaction, and given your forthcoming disclosures to me I admit there is an element of hypocrisy in this...but I think you are old enough - and intelligent enough - to recognize that a policy of  _absolute_  honesty in  _every_  situation is neither wise nor kind. That said, I am not advocating a specific position, I ask only that you weigh the consequences, both to your future education, and to your parents' happiness." He looked sad, and weary, but Hermione's mild outrage was only barely held in check by her sense of decorum.

"Thank you for the  _advice_ ," she said, primly. "Though I don't think it matters much what I want - I arranged for my parents to receive a subscription to the Daily Prophet, and considering there was a  _murder_ , I can't imagine that…" she trailed off as Professor Dumbledore awkwardly dropped his eyes to his folded hands for a moment, and she realized why. "This...isn't going to be in the newspaper. You're going to hush it up," she said, her voice flat.

"Not I, but there are...aspects of this matter which, if they became widely known, would cause a great deal of embarrassment to certain others in powerful positions. Given how few individuals know the full facts of the matter, I strongly suspect they will effectively discourage further distribution of the details, let alone public disclosure. I confess, I would not oppose them in this case, as it will enhance your own safety as well, at least in the short term." Hermione thought  _that_  sounded an awful lot like rationalization, since one of the people who would  _certainly_  be discredited by the truth coming out was the very wizard speaking to her.  _How_ long had Scabbers been at Hogwarts, as a pet of one or another of the Weasleys? But even in the depths of her stress-born cynicism, she couldn't quite bring herself to directly accuse the Headmaster of her school of manipulating the press to serve his own ends. Still, she couldn't say  _nothing_.

"So after everything, people will just go on thinking Madam Pomfrey died from carelessness?"

"Under the circumstances, I do not think she would mind. Despite being appalled at the danger involved, I suspect Poppy would be proud of you for seeking justice on her behalf. But she would be  _vehemently_ opposed to anything that would unnecessarily  _increase_  your risk after the fact. The health and safety of students was ever her overriding priority, even, I believe, at the expense of a mar to her professional reputation - given the unusual circumstance in which we find ourselves where those concerns are not aligned." Hermione let her head fall back to the pillow.

"I think I need to rest," she said, wearily.

"Of course," agreed the Headmaster, in a kindly tone. "I will do what I can to help you, whatever your decision. Oh, and lest I forget...50 points to Ravenclaw, for quick thinking in the face of mortal danger, and other 'unspecified special services' to Hogwarts." Even if she knew the points might well be objectively deserved, Hermione vaguely loathed herself for the instinctive rush of pleasure she'd felt. She was like Pavlov's dog, a hint of positive attention from a teacher, and her mouth started watering - metaphorically, at any rate...her mouth was actually quite dry.

Hermione considered asking him to take them back, but the sounds and sights of the room returned as Professor Dumbledore quickly undid whatever he'd done to ensure their privacy, then quiet murmurs as he spoke to Madam Wainscott briefly, and departed. It felt like she'd unwillingly accepted a bribe. Having no desire whatsoever to have to talk to anyone else at that moment, when the Nurse approached her bed to check on her, Hermione kept her eyes fixed on the ceiling and her breathing regular.

She had a lot to think about. As cross as her instinctive reaction had been, she couldn't say the Headmaster's analysis of her situation was  _entirely_  inaccurate. If she told them what she'd gotten into, her parents were nearly certain to pull her from Hogwarts, and despite the stress and danger of the past week, Hermione agreed that she couldn't give up magic - it was simply too important, too  _interesting_. But based on her family's shopping and casual conversation with housemates, non-magical wealth did seem to translate over favorably, so tutoring probably  _was_  within her parents' means. And as far as safety went, when there wasn't an emergency, Hermione was confident of her own ability to draw up protocols that would help...connecting her home to the Floo network for quick access to St. Mungo's, buying an owl to send for help if transport wasn't possible or convenient, making a point to try to learn that 'Expecto Patronum' spell.

So the question was, did Hogwarts offer anything  _unique_ , that was worth lying to her parents, even by omission?

Her memory duly delivered up a slideshow. The Libraries, both the main one and the other in Ravenclaw Tower. The view from her dorm at the top of the Tower. Then, faces. Padma, Roger Davies, the rest of her Ravenclaw Housemates, Ronald Weasley, Harry Potter, all her Professors (save Binns)...even, save her, the Weasley Twins, Tracey (for whom she still felt rather sorry) and  _Morag_  (who for all her attitude, had done nothing to her that even approached the refined cruelty of her former classmates).

Before coming here, her natural gifts had set her apart, and she'd had little help then from her peers or teachers, and no real friendship at all. They  _still_  set her apart here - and the 'Time thing' hadn't helped at all - but somehow in spite of that it felt like she was genuinely starting to connect with people other than her family. She imagined losing all of that just as suddenly as she'd gained it, and then had to quickly calm herself to quiet the sudden chiming of one of Madam Wainscott's monitoring spells.

But  _surely_  if she just explained all that to her parents - minus the time travel - they'd see how unlikely and unusual all this had been, understand how important Hogwarts had become to her, and let her stay?

_Oh yes,_  whispered her newly-discovered cynical side,  _because everyone knows how rationally parents behave in the face of danger - real or imagined - to their children, don't we?_  An image of her parents crying at her funeral abruptly offset the other faces. But it wasn't just what Hermione  _wanted_...there were very serious problems coming to magical Britain - some of them were already here - and she had actual evidence that, if she applied herself and learned enough, she  _could_  make a difference. Emotional reactions aside, she thought what the Headmaster had said was true...they really did  _need_  her and people like her - maybe not her right now, but certainly the best version of her she might eventually become. Would she actually become that version, tutored at home in isolation from the rest of the magical world?

Hermione tried to come to terms with a world where what was  _right_  was not necessarily the same as what was  _best_ , but had made scant progress before deep weariness pulled her eyes closed and sleep took her again.

o-o-o

Though Madam Wainscott released her Saturday morning, Hermione was still not completely recovered, and found for now she had to limit her walking speed lest she become winded. Even accounting for that, her walk from the hospital wing to the Great Hall for breakfast took a little longer than she expected.

"Hermione!" called a voice from behind her, and she paused and turned to see Roger Davies jogging lightly to catch up to her. Hermione hadn't been to her dorm yet, and was thus in the laundered robes she'd once again found on being discharged, but the older Ravenclaw boy was in casual dress - only NEWT Astronomy had classes on weekends, because proper viewing hours were limited, and even those students only wore their school robes for the class itself. Thinking of this reminded her that she'd missed the first Astronomy class, and she immediately made a mental note to find Professor Sinistra and arrange to make it up. "I just heard you were getting out of the hospital wing...how are you?" the boy asked as he arrived, mildly out of breath. Hermione marveled at the efficiency of the school's rumor mill - she hadn't even passed anyone in the halls yet, and as far as she knew only the Healer knew she'd been released.

"As well as I have any right to expect, I'd say," she answered, deprecatingly. "I've gained even more respect for actual Aurors, and lost some for myself…I could've easily been killed - I can't imagine what I was thinking."

"Oh. Well, yes, I suppose," said Roger, sounding a bit awkward, "it was kind of cracked of you to try the whole thing yourself - why didn't you ask anyone for help beyond a couple of first-year Gryffindors? Unless...did they put you up to it?" Hermione shook her head.

"No, they...well, they  _are_  Gryffindors, so it wasn't hard to talk them into it, but this was all my idea. All I can really say is that I didn't want to put anyone else in danger, and it seemed like a good idea at the time? It's clear at this point that it wasn't, even if it somehow turned out alright."

"Well, I just wanted to say thank you, for what you did. It means a lot to me to know it wasn't Madam Pomfrey's fault, and that she's going to get justice." Hermione broke eye contact, embarrassed.

"In a general sense, yes. But I've...heard...that all the details might not be in the Daily Prophet…" she admitted, darkly. Roger blinked at this, and frowned slightly, with a little shrug.

"My mother says half the things in the Prophet are 'blatant Ministry propaganda', so I guess it's not all that surprising. It  _is_  rather scandalous. But you can be sure that at least at  _Hogwarts_ , people will know the truth." Hermione frowned at this casual acceptance of a not-free press. But then, aside from an odd tabloid she hadn't been able to get a copy of yet, there  _was_  only one magical newspaper in Britain, which would presumably make it much easier and more tempting for the government to interfere. She saw Roger had noticed her frown, and deliberately changed it to a grateful expression.

"Thank you. It's...the least she deserves." Roger nodded.

"Are you headed to breakfast? I can walk with you if you like..." For a moment, there was something in his body language or his voice that gave Hermione the sudden - and bizarre - sense that the invitation wasn't entirely casual, but she quickly quashed the notion.  _Don't be silly. He's two years ahead of you, and he's just grateful because he really liked Madam Pomfrey._  Her heart, which had begun to race a bit in an uncomfortable mix of excitement and panic, calmed down - though not entirely.

"Thank you, though I'm not entirely recovered yet, so I'll be a bit slow…?" Roger smiled, and shrugged.

o-o-o

When they entered the Great Hall, the food was already out and breakfast well under way, but there was still a lull in conversation followed by a round of scattered applause - mostly from the Ravenclaw and Gryffindor tables, with a smattering of Hufflepuffs as well. But it was by no means unanimous even there, by far most of those cheering her were from the earlier years. Though Morag's face looked like she was chewing rocks. Hermione felt distinctly uncomfortable, which Roger quickly noticed and he tried to wave down the clapping with minimal success.

"They saw the hourglasses," he said, apologetically. Hermione nodded - he meant the enchanted hourglasses filled with colored gems that displayed gains or losses of house points, and which must've registered her 50-point windfall from the Headmaster - apparently there'd been a lot of assumptions about the cause. Since it was only the end of the first week, she'd more than tripled Ravenclaw's total, putting them rather unfairly far into the lead.

Hermione made her way to the Ravenclaw table and Roger, after a moment of hesitation, nodded to her then moved further up to where most of the third-years were sitting. Hermione took her own seat.

"Good morning," she offered, with deliberate casualness, selecting a croissant for herself and pouring some orange juice. Morag sniffed sharply.

"You must be well enough, since they let you out of the hospital wing," began Padma, with a brief dark glance at Morag, "but are you...I mean... _okay_?" Hermione nodded. She looked around at the faces at the table, most of which looked desperate for information, but whose owners, by some common agreement or reluctance, weren't yet peppering her with other questions. Her gaze lingered on Morag, who was pointedly not looking at her, and Hermione's gut tightened a bit. But she took a couple of deliberate breaths - she'd anticipated this, and had decided to do something unexpected, if embarrassing.

"I'm extremely lucky. I did something very foolish, and by all rights I should probably be dead." A collection of surprised expressions greeted this declaration. Even Morag was looking at her now, though a bit suspiciously.

"Er… _did_  you blow yourself up with deenay?" asked Stephen Cornfoot, hesitantly.

"I already  _told_  you that  _DNA_  doesn't explode," Kevin complained, rolling his eyes.

"Well we don't  _know_ , do we? If she made some discovery in Transfiguration, maybe she discovered something muggles don't know about D-N-A too," shot back Stephen, taking extra care to enunciate the letters this time. Hermione blinked at this. She'd been so absorbed in trying to learn everything she could about magic, it hadn't occurred to her that magic might make new science possible as well. She made a mental note to add that to her list as soon as she was done with breakfast.

"As far as I know," Hermione explained patiently, "DNA does not explode. Nor can it actually be distinguished or tracked by smell with a Supersensory Charm - though I haven't actually tested that. All the DNA talk was a trap...I was hoping, if there  _was_  a murderer and he thought he might be discovered, he'd try to cover his tracks more and make a mistake." Morag narrowed her eyes.

"Yes, that does sound stupid," she agreed. " _Obviously_ if he thought ye were the aenly person who could find him, a murderer would just kill ye as well." Hermione clenched her teeth for a moment and stilled her face.

"I  _did_  take some precautions, but I admit, they were mostly inadequate. I should've tried harder to convince a Professor, even with that 'hex'."

"Wait, was that the murderer too? He found out you were on to him and was trying to discredit you!" breathed Padma. Hermione hesitated, then shrugged.

"I...like I said before, I don't actually remember being hexed, but that...would be a reasonable conclusion," she responded, choosing her words carefully.

"So...who  _was_ he, and why  _did_  he kill Madam Pomfrey?" asked Su Li. Hermione started to answer, then stopped. She wasn't sure if Ronald even knew the truth about his pet yet, or what Professor Dumbledore intended to reveal. It would certainly be as much an embarrassment to the boy and his family as to the Headmaster, that they'd been unwittingly harboring a violent criminal for years. Hermione settled for an edited version.

"His name was Peter Pettigrew, and I gather he was a criminal of some sort. I think Madam Pomfrey discovered he'd been hiding in Hogwarts - somehow - and he killed her to keep his secret. But I don't know all the details, and I believe the matter is still under investigation, so I probably shouldn't say anything else until I know I'm allowed to." Everyone nodded, albeit with varying degrees of disappointment. Morag peered at her.

"So...if ye  _were_  an idiot, what were the paents for then, and  _fifty_ , nae less?" Hermione shook her head.

"'Special services to the school', and 'quick thinking in the face of mortal peril'," she quoted, embarrassed. "It did work out in the end, so  _maybe_  the first part is deserved, but honestly it doesn't feel like it." Particularly since she had caused the whole problem in the first place, one way or another.

"On that, we can agree," Morag said, with an air of dour satisfaction.

"Look, Morag," Hermione snapped, "I don't know what I've done to offend you, but with everything that's happened, it's possible my parents will  _pull me out of school_ , and  _until_  then, I was hoping to at least  _pretend_  like I actually had friends for once, is that too much…too much to..." She felt her throat tighten and her face grow hot and closed her eyes to count powers of 7 for a moment.  _I won't cry, someone tried to_ kill _me yesterday, Morag belittling me shouldn't even_ register _on a properly calibrated scale of distress, just relax, it doesn't matter._

"Yeah, maybe give it a rest, Morag?" agreed Padma. Hermione opened her eyes in surprise - it was the first time anyone had publicly challenged the Scottish girl. Morag seemed just as shocked as Hermione, and from her expression, Padma was almost as surprised herself, along with most of the other first-years at the table. Hermione's tormentor said nothing, and focused on her own breakfast. Whereas Hermione mouthed 'thank you' silently to Padma, and received a nod in exchange.

"So, what was the first Astronomy class like?" asked Hermione to the table at large, once she was sure her voice would be steady. "I'm quite upset that I missed it." Her house-mates began a scattered review of what the midnight class had entailed, and while Hermione listened intently, she also wondered if maybe she  _didn't_  have to pretend that she had friends.

o-o-o

After breakfast, Hermione dutifully updated her list, got a copy of Padma's Astronomy notes, then met with Professor Sinistra to arrange a make-up class. The Professor suggested that the notes were probably adequate since they hadn't done much practical work, and had just gone over the syllabus and familiarized everyone with basic terminology and the operation of their telescopes, but Hermione insisted, and the Professor wrote her a note with permission to attend the open NEWT Astronomy session at midnight. The NEWT students were largely self-supervised, and the Professor was only present to clarify specific details or questions, so she should have sufficient free time to review the first first-year class for Hermione.

That took long enough that she'd have to hurry to make her first scheduled appointment with Professor McGonagall for her science tutoring. But as seemed to happen more than half the time she was in a rush to get somewhere, she was interrupted on the way. On this occasion, by Theodore (Mr. Odious) Nott. The grin he wore was probably calculated to seem predatory, and under other circumstances Hermione likely would have found it a bit frightening. But despite a few misgivings, she apparently did trust the Headmaster, and thus discovered herself facing him with a calm, unworried expression. The Slytherin boy apparently noticed the discrepancy, as his grin vanished, but he persisted nonetheless.

" _Miss_  Granger," he greeted her, and a hint of his grin returned.

"Mr. Nott," she responded, tonelessly. "I have an appointment, so please make this quick?" His expression said he was skeptical, but he chose not to comment on it. Instead, he held out the small sheaf of papers. The dual-fold marks and Hermione's handwriting identified them as her notes.

"It seemed you did want these back, so in the interests of inter-House friendship and cooperation, I'm returning them to you," he said. Hermione stared for a moment. This was not what she'd expected at all. His smile broadened as she accepted the notes, and quickly flipped through them to ensure all the pages were present.

"Thank you?" she said, uncertainly. Maybe he'd decided that goodwill was more valuable than blackmail? Hermione reminded herself that just because he was a Slytherin didn't mean he was  _forced_  to be awful-

"And I've made sure to tell all the people I gave extra copies to for safe-keeping,  _as you suggested_ , to destroy them without reading them, of course." Hermione would have truly liked to discover that the boy actually had a conscience, but something about his delivery again made her think he wished he had a moustache to twirl.

"I...appreciate that very much," she said, slowly. Theodore nodded.

"So, since we're such good friends, I was wondering...I'm  _very_  curious about what actually happened to you last night...would you be willing to share every little detail with me?"

"I can tell you a few things, but there's an ongoing investigation...I wouldn't want to get into trouble with the Aurors." He frowned darkly at the mention of Aurors, and shook his head.

"Fine, fine," he said, waving a hand. "Forget I asked. But there is one other thing...Transfiguration is one of my favorite classes. I know McGonagall didn't want you to share your... _insights_  with anyone, but I would consider it a personal favor if you explained them to me. In strictest confidence, of course, purely as an academic exercise. Surely as a Ravenclaw, you know how irresistible the lure of knowledge can be?" Hermione remained confused. Had he simply changed his mind and instead was trying to  _nice_ -mail her?

"But as you said, the Professor told me not to. I don't want to get into trouble, and besides, it really could be dangerous." At the word 'dangerous', the boy's eyes lit up, and Hermione instantly regretted having said even that much. He shook his head in theatrical dismay, making sad 'tsk' noises. Hermione waited, her heart sinking.

"Well, some of the people I gave those copies of the notes to...they're not really as conscientious as you and I are. They might not have gotten around to destroying them yet. And while I would never dream of telling them to do such a thing, if they somehow deduced from my sadness that we  _haven't_  become as good friends as I expected, well, they're not overly fond of mudbloods, they might do something  _rash_." He paused, and his grin was back in full force. "Wouldn't it be simpler if we  _were_  good friends?"

Hermione skipped right over the unfamiliar word he'd used - she presumed it was a pejorative that applied to her somehow - and just reviewed what he'd said. He'd vaguely admitted in the original conversation that he was going to blackmail her, but now he wasn't saying anything right out, just implying. He could claim he was just joking before, and it'd be hard to prove otherwise. If Hermione had been a Professor hearing that, she would have judged the case on its obvious merits, but the Headmaster's talk about Mr. Odious not having  _technically_  violated any school rules made her wonder. But even then, she still trusted Professor Dumbledore's assertion that he would somehow make sure the notes weren't  _actually_  distributed.

"It probably would be. I'm not used to friends yet, but it certainly seems like it's better to have them than not. Unfortunately, unless you give up trying to blackmail me, I don't see how  _we_  can be friends," she said, pointedly. His grin wavered.

"Who is trying to blackmail you? I'm just trying to be friends and letting you know what the situation is...I can't help it if you're twisting everything to look bad."

"You admitted it yourself, the first time you showed me the notes!" The boy waved a finger.

"Ah, ah...I think if you recall that conversation, you'll find the word did not come up - you just asked me what I wanted." Hermione thought back, and was startled to find he was right...but at the same time, the conversation had still not been entirely innocent.

"You said 'leverage'," Hermione noted. Theodore shrugged.

"Friendship  _is_ a kind of leverage, especially in Slytherin. Nothing nefarious about that." She slumped. If she hadn't had the Headmaster's protection, she would've lost this encounter. She and Padma hadn't had time to find any counter-blackmail on him, and with lives genuinely in the balance, Harry's, hers, her family's...she'd have no choice but to give in. But did she really have a choice now? Was she  _that_  confident in Professor Dumbledore's abilities that she could risk it? Wouldn't it still cause complications with Nott's father, since the evidence was all subjective? He didn't even  _have_  a copy of the notes anymore, and even if the school managed to confiscate all the other copies, they couldn't produce them as evidence, because what was in them couldn't be revealed…

"I...can I have some time to think about it?" Mr. Odious' grin was broad, as he relished his apparent victory.

"Of  _course_ , Miss Granger. I'd never dream of pressuring you. Though I  _had_ hoped to hear about it before our next Transfiguration class Monday afternoon. If I didn't before then, or if something unpleasant happened to me, who  _knows_  what conclusions my friends might draw?"

"You're vile," Hermione declared, and he  _winked_  at her.

"Since we're becoming friends, I'll take that as I would from a fellow Slytherin - as a compliment - and just say thank you. Hope to speak to you again soon, but for now I won't keep you any longer." He sketched a deep bow, flinging one arm wide, and passed by her, a spring in his step.

She resumed her path towards Professor McGonagall's office with considerably less positive feelings about Hogwarts than she'd had earlier. Maybe being pulled out of school wouldn't be  _all_  bad. It solidified a vague idea she'd had to put that responsibility where it belonged, and she drafted a letter in her head as she hurried through the corridors.

o-o-o

_Dear Mum and Dad,_

_It's only been a few days since my last letter, but since I didn't get a reply, I'm assuming the owl wouldn't wait for one? I will try to arrange for something more reliable for non-magical people. Anyway, I've been very busy since then. I don't think it will go well if I try to explain in a letter, but you should expect to receive one from Deputy Headmistress McGonagall or Head of Ravenclaw Flitwick, or even a personal visit. I'm not in trouble or anything, but...what happened was pretty serious._

_I hope we'll find a way for you to talk to me before you make any major decisions. Despite everything, there are a lot of positive things about Hogwarts, not the least of which is that I have friends here, and even if things are complicated, I think I still would prefer to stay. But I know whatever happens that you only want to do what's best for me._

_Love,_

_Hermione_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (edit) Thanks to /u/chevron for some punctuation clarity, and /u/HermioneGPEV for catching a couple doubled-word typos and some confusing wording!


End file.
